The Stolen Births
by Accio Insanity
Summary: Sherlock's point of view of The Hungry Homicide. Sequel.
1. The Second Body

It's the same dream; always the same down to every minute detail. There he is, the only one I've ever really loved, standing at the top of a building, the buildings differ but it's always the same thing; he stands right on the edge looking down, phone in hand, ready to jump. Right before he jumps I yell his name but every time I'm too late and he falls, limbs flailing horrifically in the air, to his death. And as I reach his body, bleeding and broken, I know that I am the reason that he jumped. Every time I wake I feel a certain emptiness swelling within me and my heart breaks into shards.

That's why I barely sleep, he's concerned but I dread sleep. Each time I rest my head and close my eyes, every single time I fall asleep, I see him fall. Without fail. It's illogical, it's irrational, but it sits in my mind and lingers.

On this particular morning I woke well before the sun rose and even earlier than John. I spend rest of the early morning, before the sunlight seeps into the apartment, with my ear pressed firmly to John's bedroom door, listening to his heavy breathing and convincing myself that he is, in fact, still alive.

When I hear John stir through the wood of the door I shift myself into the kitchen and begin to pace, racing for a plan before John is able to lay his eyes on me. I take a deep breath and slip into a mask of nothingness. I let my mouth rest and my eyes empty, draining all emotions from my facial expression. I can't let him see the real me.

"I asked for your laptop an hour ago," I lie tonelessly.

"You usually just get it yourself," I can hear the irritation in his tone already but there is something different in the way he moves.

"Yes, well, it was over there," I make gesture in the general direction of his laptop. Ignores me, rolling his eyes as he shoves me gently out of the kitchen. I notice his actions carefully. Whereas he would usually lay the whole palm of his hand on my shoulder, today he pushed me using only his fingertips. Something is on his mind and I fear that he may have realised that I was at his door all night.

"I guess I'm having black coffee again," he sighs heavily. The milk! I forgot again, too wrapped up in my own terror to remember the simple things that John needs.

"You should really buy some milk," I try joke, but under my mask the phrase comes out emotionless and dry. John glares at me icily for less than a millisecond before he drops his eyes and refuses to make any kind of contact with me at all.

"I've been asking you to get some for the past two weeks," as he pushes past me again, I can feel the frustration emitting from him. The phrase "fuming with anger" only makes sense when I am with John. I can feel his anger even if it's not directed at me, although it usually is, and it sits in my heart like a boulder until I can recompose myself once again.

I flee before he can add any more to the statement and seek the refuge of technology. I open my laptop and his; my own laptop guarded with a 31 character password and John's protected with his middle name, 'Hamish'. On his laptop I open the evidence of our current case. It's only at its opening with one body and a gaping mystery; I expect many more to come before I solve it. On my own laptop I have a web browser open with a variety of websites open that I'd prefer John not to locate.

I've read through two websites on my own laptop before John makes any sign of re-entering the living room. When he does, I click away from the current page and pretend to intently read the evidence on his laptop.

John collapses into the chair across from me and noisily chews his overcooked toast; I've learned through observation that what I class as overcooked toast is actually perfectly toasted for John but I still never dare to make him breakfast in case he figures anything out. He's staring at me now, coffee in hand, wincing at how bitter it is with the lack of milk.

A notification pops up in the bottom right corner of John's computer screen. I click it and quickly scan the email that appears. "There's been another body found," I announce as I re-read the short paragraph from Lestrade. "We need to get a closer look," I think aloud. With no pictures, there's no telling if this murder is linked to the others.

I jump up and instantly head for the door, eager for anything that with distract me from John.

"I haven't eaten," John argues.

But I'm already speaking before he's finished his argument, "Do hurry, John." Slightly ashamed of my treatment of John, I leave for the road.

I wrap my coat around myself against the wind. I should wait for John; I've upset him enough today, even if it was an accident. The few seconds that I have to wait for John allows me to compose myself back into the tough, self-centred Sherlock that I hide behind. I hear the front door of the apartment click and I wait no longer, waving my hand in the air at a conveniently nearing cab. Luckily it is empty and we climb into the back seat as soon as it pulls to the curb.

"Trafalgar square," I command.

The cabbie turns in his seat to face me. He's young, much younger than the majority of the cab drivers around London, so young that I can assume with certainty that he is fresh out of schooling, probably too idiotic to finish college. He has a passion for cars; he wears a small automotive badge on his coat collar which is shined but not new judging by the circular friction stain on his collar. But he's new to the job; the cab is overly clean and shined and his clothes pressed and stark.

I choose his weakest points, his youth and inexperience, and scowl. "Take us anyway," I hiss, suggesting that I may become violent. The cabbie starts to panic at this, becoming overly stressed causing his eyes to water.

"Just take us as close as you can," John consoles.

"John," the whimper escapes my lips before it processes in my mind. Typical of John to ruin my plans, I sigh and let myself fall back into the seat.

The agonisingly long cab ride ends with the driver trying to assert his dominance by saying, "They're not gonna let you in," he feigns confidence weakly.

His idiocy tips my temper over the edge and I say, "Thank you very much for your service," with bitter sarcasm while I throw the few coins from my pocket at him rather than to him. I almost leap out of the cab onto the concrete with the anticipation of a distraction. I hear John call out to me but I am determined to forget everything; the dreams, John's actions, John.

I reach the square and scale the temporary fence with ease before my conscience forces me to freeze and acknowledge John's existence once again. I turn to find John has already reached the boundary; his face is flushed from running behind me. I push on a section of the fence that isn't weighed down by a concrete block so that John can join me.

"Hurry up, everyone else is here," I say before I've even seen who is already here. When I do, all that was left of my good mood fades. Far too many unnecessary people stand in a tight circle around what appears to be a young woman's body. I scan the faces briefly and recognise my least favourite face; Andrerson's.

"Morning, Greg," John mutters from my side with a slow breath. I am still not adjusted to referring to Lestrade as Greg yet, but I will try, for John, because it seems to make him happy.

"No time for chatting, John," I command, finally slipping into the release I need. I push my way towards the body, causing the huddle to disperse. I fall to me knees, snaffle for my rectangular magnifying glass and begin my investigation of the body.

Her clothes are dampened and the dewfall that we received very early this morning signals that she has obviously been outside for the majority of the night, however as I slide my hand beneath her body I realise that she has been submerged in water. I scan her face, neck and her arms. She wields a black eye, dark bruises on her arms a light bruise on her neck. I scan her body for death wounds and find no entry point for a blade other than the messily stitched wound on her torso. I glimpse at it briefly and settle for investigating it further in the morgue.

I place my hands over heavy bruising at the top of the arms, across the biceps, and deduce that she has been held down, quite possibly drowned. Although there is some slight bruising on the neck, there is not enough to hint that choking was the cause of death. I flick open her eyelids, her now dull eyes are bloodshot, a tell-tale sign of asphyxiation. Putting all my evidence together, the answer is simple; drowning.

Over the last few months I've been slowly teaching John to observe rather than to look and, with this blindingly simple death, I expect him to observe well. I stand and fondly tell him, "Your turn. Look at her," I am so confident with John's growing skills that I use the word 'look' rather than 'observe'.

I stand behind him and watch the cogs in the back of his mind click over as he takes in the scene before him. His trademark frown sets across his brow, the frown that means that he's using his brain and not annoyed with me; it's my favourite frown. But something stirs deep within his mind that causes his body to tense before he mutters, "She's been strangled."

"Wrong. Look again," I whisper into his ear. His eyes widen slightly when I say this but I always say the same thing, down to every word. What is going on inside that mind of yours John? I step closer and place my hand on his back, giving a reassuring pat before I have time to think about doing so.

Ever since I started having the reoccurring dreams, I have craved John's touch, even if it is me touching him. It always seemed silly to me, the need to touch someone to make sure that they are actually standing in front of you, because of course they are, you can see them; but recently I've needed to touch him more and more, just lay a finger on him, to make sure that he is real, that he's not just a dream, that he's not just a figment of my imagination.

He eventually jumps away from my touch. "I am looking," he growls. And then he turns to me, face turned up to mine. I slip my hand away from his chest as he steps towards me. I look down at him, eyes flicking to his lips when he bites them.

I have to use every ounce of energy I have to remain emotionless and focused. All I want to do is lean down so slightly and let him kiss me. In the end I have to spin him around before I do actually allow myself to lean down to him. "You are looking but you're not observing," I eventually say.

He kneels down again and observes. This time he observes, finally. He touches the woman's back and slides his hand beneath her just as I had done. He lifts his head towards the fountain, "she could have been drowned, I guess."

"Guessing is not good," I crouch by him and scan her body again. John thinks she drowned herself in the fountain, by accident or on purpose but there is a possibility that she wasn't killed here, her hair and the location of her bruises give it away. "But you're right," John slumps a little closer to me. "She was attacked," John furrows his brow, "There's at least 11 pins in there, she would never leave her hair a mess."

"Alcohol?" I refrain from groaning at the stupidity of his suggestion. Obviously not, how could she have strangled herself and held herself underwater then crawled out again? I brush it away and try to forgive the remark.

"Possibly," I say to be kind, he is only learning after all and I should be patient, not everyone is born with the gift. "But I'd say someone grabbed her by her hair, look at how far the hair tie has been pulled down. And the strangle marks and bruise on her eye and arms are clear giveaways but not the cause of death." I need to visualise the event, I stand an take a few paces. "John, stand here and face the fountain," he stands right in front of me without argument. "She was standing or walking somewhere by the fountain, the attacker came from behind an grabbed her by the hair," I take hold of John's good shoulder and drag him towards where her body is. "She was pushed back against the fountain and judging by the traces of blood under her finger nails, she tried to fight back and got a punch to the side of the head." I mime a punch at John who doesn't even flinch at my fist as it flies towards his head but he steps back as though he were about to fight back. "The attacker strangled her," I take my chances and wrap my hands around John's neck, he swallows sending a wave down his neck muscles, "Until she passes out," although she must not have, judging by her arms, "and he dumps her in the water."

"But she's not in the water now," John says as I lift my fingers gently from his neck.

"Yes," I turn to the laughable group of policemen, "Who moved her?"

"A small patrol of policemen discovered her about an hour ago on their morning sweep for drunks," Lestrade answers.

"Get to the point," I hurry him.

"They found her as she is now; on the ground, not in the water."

My body convulses, pushing John away from me a little harder than intended. Something is screaming at me from the back of my mind. Something wrong; and it is so blindingly obvious but just out of my grasp. "Why would they move the body after she died? Why?" I massage my temples; the source of the screaming. "Anderson."

"Yes," answers the obnoxious voice. I feel sick just knowing that he's there but to think that I am about to ask him for help.

"Go back to the office and get me-" I stop, opening my eyes to see a hideous scene where Anderson is waiting hopefully. I reconsider my requests, "Oh don't look so happy, go back to the office and get John and I some coffee. I can't stand you hanging around," I wave my hand at him dismissively.

He mumbles something under his breath and looks to Lestrade like an obedient dog would look to his master. That's essentially what Anderson is, however; a lapdog. The click of the temporary fence as Anderson slips through it triggers an explosion of clarity.

"Oh," I burst.

"What?" John asked inquisitively. I look right into his eyes, impressing John always makes me happier.

"She wasn't killed here!" I feel a grin creep into my lips.

"What?"

"She was killed elsewhere and they were moving her to the fountain to try and cover it up, make it look like she's a drunk who drowned in the fountain after deciding to take a swim. Look at the pull on her jumper. It's pulled tight on the side closest to the fountain and trailing out on the other. It's obvious she was dragged here…" I trail off because somebody behind me shifts uneasily and scoffs as though they hold some sort of superiority in the group.

"And how would you know this?" I glare at the officer. He's young and judging by his pale face, he's never seen a dead body before, this can mean one of two things; he was either on the morning patrol that located her or he's been newly promoted. Considering that he stands with a crippling slouch and idiocy is radiating off him, I'd say he was on the morning patrol.

Before I can even open his mouth, Lestrade is scolding him, "I know what you're thinking and don't. He's not a suspect." One of his puppies is misbehaving, I smirk to myself.

"You can leave too, help Anderson with the coffee; it's a hard task for humans with brains as small as yours."

"You said the last one wasn't killed where we found her either," John announces, drawing me back to the original purpose of my spiel.

"Yes, I did say that. John you are the only one with sense here." I glare at the rest of the group of officers, daring another to speak against me. I try to keep my eyes locked with the officer by John's side but I can't help but notice the gorgeous grin on John's face. "The other was moved to," I turn back towards the body before I started to replicate John's smile on my own face. "She died in almost exactly the same way."

"Almost?" John asks.

"The other had a fresh scar that had been stitched up on her stomach. I obviously haven't checked this one yet." I collapse at the woman's side and push her over onto her back. I lift her shirt to reveal an identical scar. "It's the same people. The scars are the same."


	2. Existance

"We're done," I announce, committing all my observations to my long term memory. "Bring her to the morgue and put her in the drawer next to the other woman."

I brush my coat behind me and stride to the opening in the fence. "Uh, thanks," I hear John mumble to Lestrade. His hurried footsteps come to join mine.

Feeling terrible, as I always did when I treated John like I treat everybody else, I pause at the opening of the fence and hold the gate open for him. I avoid looking down at him in fear of showing some sort of unnatural emotion while a strange wave of redemption washes over me.

When I eventually refocus my eyes I am confronted by the slightly humorous but rather unpleasant scene that it Anderson and the other officer returning with a ridiculous amount of coffees. The paper cups spew with hot coffee that dribbles onto their hands as they walk; yet somehow, the transport of the coffees is more crucial than tending to their hands which are no doubt being burnt by the liquids.

Idiots. I'm surrounded by idiots.

"Nice to see you've found your true calling, Anderson," I announce sarcastically. He did retrieve them quickly, I'll give him that.

I am tempted to praise him with a 'good dog' but John is already thanking them with false amount of gratitude.

I raise my hand in the air and as always a cab pulls up beside me. I don't understand why people complain so much about the transport service. I slide into the cab and signal for him to wait. As he climbs in to join me he hands me a cup with a slight scowl. What have I done now? I hesitate but take the coffee.

Mine is one of the less spilled ones, an obvious strategic move. I pop off the plastic lid and gaze into the creamy brown liquid.

"I wanted black," I accidentally mumble into the cup.

"Oh here, wrong one," John jumps. He watches me carefully, waiting for my reply.

"Everybody makes mistakes, John. Thanks," I reply and we swap the coffees. I watch his face as we do so; watch the flood of relief and the swell from my forgiveness, something that I never show to anyone but John. I try to contain the butterflies in my stomach caused by his wide eyes but they escape as a stupid smile.

"221 Baker Street," I tell the cabbie, leaning closer to him but never taking my eyes off John.

"Home? I thought we were heading over to the morgue."

"No, we can go later. I need to pick up some things."

I only turn from John when he turns from me to peer out the window. I do the same but while I'd usually think about the case while sipping on my coffee, all I can think about is John. I scan the tops of the buildings, searching for the one I saw last night in my dream. We pass the one I saw two weeks ago on a Wednesday in my dream, and the one I saw three nights ago but not the one that I saw last night. I swear there is some pattern to it all and I have to solve it before something unspeakable happens.

We eventually reach a more familiar part of town and park outside our flat. In my subdued mood I climb out of the cab without thinking and fumble with the keys while leaving John to deal with paying the cabbie.

I don't wait for John this time and I bound up into my room. I can feel myself losing my grip on reality again. I slam my door and drop my coffee on my desk. I press my hands to my temples, calling on some distant memory, a clue, anything. I search the back of my brain. I tear down framed map from my wall to reveal another map, this time a map of London. Little red dots cover it, each one a building that I saw John jump from. There's no pattern! They don't circle around, they don't point, they don't do anything but terrify me.

I pace madly eventually slamming the framed map back up on the wall. My eyes cloud in frustration. I press them with the heel of my hands, desperately trying to make them see. I begin my pacing again but it's not long before my dreams take a hold again. I know better than most that a human that shows no fear by day is tormented most by their dreams. Stupid. Is it real? I panic. Alternate realities, they exist. Maybe in another reality John has jumped. The grief I feel is real. This reality isn't real. The reality where I have John. Stupid. I am real. I can prove it. I lash out at the nearest object and feel it tear through the skin in my hands. I curse at my stupidity more than I curse at the pain. My legs give way and I rub at my blinded eyes.

"Sherlock, you okay?" I don't answer, "Sherlock?"

He's in my room; I can't see him, I can barely hear him he just sounds so far away, but I know that he's here with me.

"Sherlock what happened? Did you get hit by the glass?"

I hear him, he's closer now. I force myself to look at him. I can only look at him for a second before I realise that he's inspecting me. I throw my head into my hands again, trying to hide my eyes. I wonders around my room, noting the mess, no doubt.

A few seconds and he sits beside me. "Sherlock," he comforts, "You can talk to me."

"No," I say flinching away from him.

He hesitates but then places a hand on my knee and reassuringly whispers, "You can talk to me."

"I definitely cannot talk to you," I mumble under my breath so that he has no chance of hearing it. I squeeze myself into a tense ball, but then John does something that nobody has dared to or wanted to do; he touches me. Not in the way that a person grabs another to lead them or draw their attention, but in a soft, caring way that is full of trust. I let my body relax and he runs his hand through my hair. My face turns towards his unconsciously and I drop my arms. His chubby finger grazes around my jawline while we stare at each other. What is he doing? He is so silent, so still but his eyes dart around my face trying to decipher me.

"John," He doesn't even react. I try to watch his eyes, I really do, but my eyes flick to his lips and back without my consent. I consider kissing him but hurriedly dismiss the idea and try to attract his attention to me again, "John."

"Sherlock?"

I take a deep breath, "I had a dream last night… about you."

There, I said it and I know it's the most information I've revealed to anyone about what goes on inside my head beyond the genius mind.

"Oh?" he eventually replies. His voice is monotone but I can hear his distress. "What was it about?"

I only realise that his hand has been on my jaw when he removes it and a cold loneliness sets in. "You were in it," I feel like there is an elephant in my throat and I swallow hard but it stays, bringing an army of tears along with it. I desperately try to blink them away but as I squeak, "It was wrong," they pour from my eyes. I try to cover my face with my hands.

"It was a nightmare," he offers. I let another violent wave of tears fall and when I open my eyes again John is gone.

"Stay with me, John?" I plead.

He ignores me, "I'll get the broom." He hates me. I've scared him. He knows what I feel for him. He knows I'm gay. He hates me. Stupid, stupid, stupid Sherlock.

I huff, shake my arms and legs and drain the emotions off my skin. Tossing my half-empty coffee into the bin my the door, I slip on my coat and scarf. John appears behind me; he was actually getting the broom. I turn from him before my guilt and regret shows. "I'm going down to the morgue. You can join me when you want to," I mention. I glide down the stairs, barely conscious to the fact that I am moving at all.

My body is still numb when the cab pulls up and I'm not entirely sure that I manage to tell the cabbie where I need to go but he's driving somewhere so I guess I have.

I scan the buildings as we pass them but I still can't see the building from last night's nightmare. I am just starting to doubt that I told the cabbie the right address when we stop in a familiar place.

I hand the cabbie far too much money but in my numb state I couldn't care less.

"Molly," I shout down the hall.

She pokes her head around the corner with wide eyes. "I-I haven't got the woman's body prepared yet. I'm so sorry Sherlock," She springs back into the room.

"That's okay," I hesitate but follow her inside, "I actually need to talk to you."

"Me?" She looks up from her clipboard at me like a deer in the headlights.

"I need to tell you something," I play with my hands nervously.

"Wouldn't you rather talk to John?"

"That's the thing, Molly. I can't tell John about this," I didn't think it was possible but Molly's eyes grow even wider at this.

"Me?"

"Yes, you," I grumble impatiently.

"Should we go downstairs where it'll be a little quieter?"

"Yes," I don't want anyone to hear any of what I am about to tell Molly.

We reach the morgue, the quietest place in the entire facility, "Now, Molly, before I say you anything I have to know that you won't disclose the following information anybody."

She nods, "you can trust me." Her usual happy bounce has gone and has been replaced by a serious tone.

I take a deep breath, "I'm in love with John," I blurt.

"That's okay with me," she says slightly disheartened for an unknown reason. "Jim was gay. Before he was Moriarty, I mean."

I hesitate again, "Molly, you do not understand what I'm trying to tell you. I don't understand what's happening and I can't talk to John about it because he's not gay and he started acting strangely and I think he hates me and-"

Here it comes. Yet another mental breakdown accompanied by an existential crisis. I can feel it in my stomach before it spreads like a cancer through my entire body, filling me with blackness.

"Sherlock, calm down," Her hand is on my back but it doesn't feel warm like John's did. "I'm going to say this all wrong but hear me out. Anderson, Lestrade, most of the people in this facility; they all hate you. They worked with you for one day and hated you. Some lasted a week but look at John, he's LIVED with you for over a year now and he still admires you."

"So you're saying that he'll hate me soon enough even if he doesn't now?"

"No, you know that's not what I'm saying." I don't but I let her go on, collapsing into a chair and holding on tight to reality. "The longest anyone has ever lasted before giving up on you is a week and you know and accept that, but John has stuck with you. He is a true friend to you; he'd never hate you even if you tried to shut him out and tried to push him away."

"I have nightmares too," I add.

"Do you want to tell me about them?"

"No, but I will," I mumble. I reveal most things but leave out that the buildings change, my chart of building locations and my theories about reality. "I yell but he doesn't hear me or doesn't listen. I scream, I really do, but he never changes his mind."

"It's the same every time?"

"Never changes."

Molly's pager beeps ending our conversation. "John's at the door, we really must get him his own key card. Do you want to go up and get him?"

"No, I need you to lie for me. Tell him that I just called you to set up the body. Stall him."

She doesn't question me and leaves without hesitation.

I bound up the stairs and out of the fire escape door right into a back alley.

"Got 5 pounds?" A familiar voice grumbles. The Homeless Network.

"Ah, Gerald! Just the man I need," he must have seen me enter the morgue from his usual busking spot across the road. "Now this case is quite strange, some sort of cult is cutting into the uteri of women, I'm not sure exactly why just at this point but I do know that the first woman was transported a great distance before or after she was killed, more likely after judging by the lack of decay. Either way, I need you to keep an eye on anyone being escorted against their will." I hand him a handsome amount of cash, "Share it around a little."

He nods and leaves without a word. I skirt around the corner and re-enter the building through the front door again. I pull out my key card, the spare falling out with it. I've been meaning to give it to John but lately the ability to escape from him has been just a little too convenient.

I make my way the cafeteria, knowing that Molly will have taken him there so that I can walk freely about the building without any chance of John seeing me.

John sits with his back to me. Taking my chance I wander up behind him and listen in to a few fragments of their conversation.

"I shouldn't say…" Molly whimpers.

"I can't ask him. He won't tell me."

"What won't I tell you?" I ask, intervening before Molly can let anything slip. I trust her, but not as much as I trust John's ability to get information from people.

"Never mind," he says, startled and suddenly nervous. "Where have you been?" His voice shakes.

"Library," I lie, "Have you got the bodies ready?"

"Yes," Molly says, her voice squeaking under pressure.

Molly and I rush out of the Cafeteria leaving John to walk a few metres behind us.

"I didn't say anything," she reassures me.

"I know."

"And I haven't got the bodies out yet."

"I know that too."


	3. Pride

Molly pulls out the two bodies from their drawers onto stretchers. I take another quick look at them both to refresh my mind. Unnatural deaths, moved after death. Two scars on each woman's stomach area; one just above where the uterus would be if she were pregnant, the other lower down but still where the uteri would be. Judging by the jaggedness of the first wound, the women were held down but not anaesthetised when the operations took place. However, the second incision was made with a delicate hand but stitched with violent tugs.

"Scalpel," I order. I hold out my hand and, with a soft graze of Molly's hand, I am holding a scalpel.

I move to unstitch the new victims horrendously stitched wound when I remember my attempts to train John to observe, not just see. He's gotten better over time but I struggle to be patient sometimes, especially in important, genius and thrilling cases such as these.

"John, take a look at the stitches before I take them out."

He steps up to the woman and moves around her slowly. I can see him observing her properly but I don't dare lift my confidence in him until I hear his conclusion.

"Well, they were armatures, I know that. They used a thick needle and this twine is just household stuff, fishing wire even. They've no doubt used a sewing needle not a stitching needle. They don't seem to have infection though, yet, but they have had the cuts for a little while, this one's closed up a bit." He seems reluctant to go on. "They weren't under anaesthetic so they've been cut open while they were still feeling, I'm guessing."

Excellent. He didn't get anything wrong this time, apart from the 'guessing' but I choose to ignore it this time. Now for the next test, "And how do you know that?" I raise an eyebrow at him.

He exhales loudly, his eyes flicking back to the stitches. "because they struggled. These marks," He points at the bruising around the stiches, something that I disregarded before, "Are from violent pulling, not just a particularly rough tug from the stitcher, but from jerking of the whole body."

Pride. It swells inside me a comes out as an unfortunately dry laugh, almost sarcastic in its tone. "Excellent, John!"

"What did I get wrong?" John queries, his confidence visibly fading from his face.

"Nothing, John, nothing," he finally looks at me and I laugh again. My laugh changes tone at the sight of John's now smiling face. "I'm proud of you."

I step in close and gaze down at him, my heart full of love. His hand moves from his side and reaches up towards something above me. He hand shivers slightly, as if unsure where to go, but then settles on my shoulder. My brain buzzes wildly.

I force myself to turn my head away from John before I do something idiotic like kissing him or even just hugging him. My eyes stop on a bubbling, enthusiastic Molly Hooper. Her smile is so broad it occupies the majority of her face. I frown at her as a warning before John suspects anything.

"Uhh… Sherlock?"

What have I done? Did I give something away? Am I being too obviously gay and in love with John Watson?

"Molly told me that you had a nightmare."

I glare at Molly. I should have known. All Molly and John do together is gossip. I should have known she's say something as soon as John asked. "I'll leave you two alone for a little bit. I have things to attend to," she stutters and rushes out of the room.

I peek back at John, "I did." I avoid all eye contact just as you would do if a carnivorous animal was in your presence, ready to rip you apart. A basic instinctual defence.

""Do you want to tell me what it was about?" this time I turn back him and attempt to stare him down, trying to switch the roles of predator and prey.

"No," I keep my eyes locked with his; fully knowing that John is the one person that I cannot stare down. Curse his army training, nothing will frighten this man.

"I can help you Sherlock, you just have to tell me." I don't look away but he doesn't speak either. "Fine, don't help yourself. I'm going." He spins on his heel, escaping through the door.

"I thought I lost you."

He jumps, "What?" He still faces away from me but I can tell that his limbs are not obeying him. He's still trying to leave but something is holding him back.

"Oh, you heard," I reply anxiously, trying to slip back into a shield of emotionlessness.

He turns slowly to face me once again. "I want you to repeat it, Sherlock," his voice is stern, commanding, the voice I imagine him using in the army.

I hold my breath for a few seconds until the words tumble from my tongue, "I thought I lost you."

He steps towards me, trying to intimidate him, I do the same. "Lost as in how?" He takes another confident step.

I do not replicate his movements this time, now I back away. "It doesn't matter now."

""It does matter, your room proved that and the fact that you never sleep." He was just cleaning up the mess, I reassure myself.

"I'm afraid of the dreams," I confess. But it's more than that, I'm scared that they are real; they feel so real. Maybe he's already jumped or maybe I'm seeing the future. Either way I'm not there in time to save him.

"When was the last time you slept?" His eyes glint with so many emotions.

""I sleep most nights."

He steps forward. He's too close. Too far inside my mind, I can feel him digging which is absurd because telepathy is a myth. I step back as he steps forward. The hard metal rim of the trolley hits me just below my lower back. It rolls a little and a scalpel drops from it, clattering to the ground.

"For how long?"

"For the last few nights, an hour."

"An hour!" I step back again, changing course slightly so that I don't hit the trolley, as John steps forward forcing us into some strange dance. The dance between predator and prey before a kill is made. "That's not enough, Sherlock, you know that."

I'm trapped with nowhere else to go unless I push past John. "I'm done talking," I fling my arm towards John, attempting to elbow John away from my path but he intercepts my plan, grabbing my wrists and pushing me backwards. I pull my arms towards me, attempting to shake them free but John has the upper hand, pinning me against the bench with his entire body.

"You're hurting me John," I whimper but he's not listening to me. He lifts his gleaming brown eyes to mine, "John, please."

He jumps away from me, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he tries to meet my eyes when he speaks to me but he can't seem to bring himself to do it.

"Quite alright, John. You're worried, I know." I do know and I know because I'm worried about him. He's started to change, this is all so unlike the John Watson I know. I bend over and acquire a new scalpel. "I'm going to open up this woman first," I gesture at the first woman we found, "I'd like you to observe."

"I know how to stitch and unstitch," he grumbles.

Now, with this victim and work before me, I am able to put my emotional shield back on. I pick at the stitches cautiously and pin it open with great care.

The flesh is dirty and stretched as though something has been placed inside and taken back out again. The second wound was much neater than the relatively healed wound that could have been made up to two weeks before the first incision.

"The cut, contrasting to the stitching, is precision and neat," I note aloud.

"They knew what they were doing here," John announces.

I struggle not to cringe at the absurdity of his conclusion. He said himself that they were armatures. "No, they were careful," I try not to hiss at him.

"What makes you say that?"

"The incision point is more of a stab than an incision. It's much deeper than the rest of the wound indicating that they thrust the blade inwards and then slowly cut downwards. I also know they used a knife. It's obvious from the sewing needle and the slight jaggedness of the incision," I sigh.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why'd they cut into them?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Not to me."

I take a slow breath, calming myself. John is only learning and he is so much more intelligent than anybody else I know personally.

"They were getting something out, John. Something that needed to be taken out carefully." I dare to take his arm and pull him closer to the body. "Look at the wound, not just the exposed flesh but everywhere."

I push him in front of me, leaning against him so that he is force ever closer to the woman. "I don't understand."

I can't ask too much of him. I exhale slowly and drag him toward the first woman's body. "It's easier to see on this one."

I wait for him as patiently as I can bare but eventually it wears thin and I can't help but huff. I free John from my grip so that I can stand beside him and guide him through my observations.

"The women haven't been opened up just this once," I begin. "There, just to the left of the stitching and the new incision and extending just above and below is an old scar. The old scars on both women have got to be a year old, if not more. And if I'm right, which I always am, this means that they were taking something valuable out."

"So the first time they put something into the flesh and now they've retrieved it. Some sort of safe keeping?"

Yes, it would make sense to be a way of safekeeping valuables. I consider this in my head before revealing my deductions. "Well I actually have two conclusions as of now. The women were either, as you said, a hiding place to transport goods from one place to another. If not, it was a secret bond of a cult and in leaving it means the bond is broken and therefore removed. Either way, yes, it is a sort of safe keeping."

The events of today have made my mind sluggish and disorderly but even so, John is in the right frame of mind for once. His conclusion, although he was not confident in it, was utterly brilliant.

I try to praise him but he is no longer paying attention to me. Molly has re-entered the room with a small crowd of other morticians.

"We're going to have to ask you to leave now," announces a grey haired man in the front of the group.

"Just allow us to tidy up a little and we'll be on our way," I respond.

"No need, I'll take care of that for you," Molly says with an honest smile.

We leave without another word.


	4. Growing Up

"I already told you, I had a dream about losing you," I huff.

"Losing me how?"

"It's none of your business," I throw my scarf over the top on my door and hand my coat lazily on the back of a nearby chair and collapse into it before my body decides to move of its own accord again.

"It is if you destroy the flat like you destroyed your own room," John follows me around the flat like a shadow.

"I'll confine it to my room then." I wriggle my toes in a desperate attempt to regain control of my limbs. If there was only some way I could get to the door before John has a chance to black my path. I shake feeling into my legs.

"That's not the point, Sherlock. The point is that you're hurting yourself both psychologically and physically."

"I'm fine," I lie. I stand up abruptly, finding my escape route.

"Sit," he commands, his voice stern. I imagine him in his army uniform for a split second but obey. "Sherlock, you need to talk to someone about this."

"I've talked to Molly," I defensively reply.

"But she can only look after you when you're at the lab or in the morgue. I am with you at just about every hour of the day," he argues.

He has a point but it doesn't change my mind whatsoever. He will leave. Everybody else does. "You can't help me."

"Don't push me away, Sherlock," he snaps with words so sharp that they feel like tiny knives. Then he sits, leaning towards me with his huge watery eyes. Don't do that John, that's not fair.

"I'm not going to be affected by your dream, Sherlock. I'm not going to die because you told me."

BUT YOU WILL DIE IF I TELL YOU, I scream hoping that John can read me telepathically. My lips speak before my brain processes the data, "Yes, but all you idiots end up doing the thing to get you killed anyway."

He stands with a slapping noise. "well, I've had just about enough of this. God, you're like a child." He walks away from me, my stomach churns terribly. I lock my eyes on him as he escapes through the door. "I'll be out for a while. Grow up while I'm out," he adds before leaving me alone.

"John," I whimper, talking to nobody in particular.

My head falls into my hands, elbows balanced carefully on my knees. I consider following him but I've made the mistake of crowding John when he'd prefer to be alone. The trouble is I never know when he wants me to follow him or if I should leave him alone and find him later or let him come to me.

Humans are so confusing; they dedicate their brains to useless things and leave no room for the important things, it leaves them as a confusing mess. Most people just project clues off them without even knowing, through their hair and their ties and their posture, but John has intelligence and he'd becoming more and more unreadable as time passes. I take the blame for some of the change, but I've only done what's for the best for him. In any case, he's changing so rapidly in so many other ways, other ways that I can't put my finger on.

I can feel him floating away, just like the others, and I know it's not just me misjudging him because of the dreams; he barely talks to anybody anymore, he moves so much slower than before, he avoids touching me now. It's not all in my head.

This idea sparks an idea. John hesitated before placing his hand on my shoulder, as though he were going to do something different and changed his mind.

I missed something. Something major. I think it's time to sink into my mind palace.

The preparation gets quicker each time I let myself slip into such an altered state of consciousness. Contrary to everybody's beliefs, the act requires an intense amount of concentration, relaxation and the control of my entire body. In a way it is a lot like a more effective type of lucid dreaming in that I can control where I travel and what I see.

This time, however, I cannot simply walk into the palace. In my buzzing state it takes me at least half an hour of meditation to slip from reality into the palace.

When I arrive, I know exactly where I am headed, despite my lack of direction. I stride down many marble halls, pass many doors and turns but somehow my feet take me to correct destination without my command.

I pull at the handle and the heavy door opens. Inside I find John standing before me hand raised. I watch the scene carefully over and over, sometimes in real time, sometimes in slow motion, but I finally see it. His pupils widen ever so slightly as I step towards him.

The size of a person's pupils can tell you everything about them. If I start to talk about murder in a social situation, people's pupils generally contract. However, if John uses his signature charm to persuade somebody into telling him anything, their pupils dilate. It's simple really; if somebody is comfortable or happy in a situation or talking about a topic, their pupils will grow, and if they aren't happy, their pupils contract.

Here, John's pupils are growing. My heart settles a little. And I watch the scene over and over, watching his eyes and watching him in general.

I wonder around my palace for a while longer until I locate the corridor that leads to pointless, temporary memories. My imagination included. My imagination comes into view at the very end of the corridor. It's dark wood doors are marvellous, decorated with extravagant gold scenes. I sit cross-legged here in the middle of a scene where John and I are holding each other for no reason other than just to be close to each other.

The walls start to shake and the people before me react as if they were in an earthquake. In reality it is only I that reacts to the shaking. This is when the palace gets dangerous. If I stay here too long I could become stuck but watching this scene in my imagination seems to out-weigh the risk of being forever trapped in a comatose state. The rumblings should stop if I don't answer them.

It is only when my imaginary John turns to me and says, "I will die if you don't leave," that I wake myself.

I'm flung back into reality violently. I fall from my chair, head pounding. It's not the first time this has happened but the headache had never throbbed like this one and the muscle spasms have never been this uncontrollable.

I need a drink of something strong tasting. I make a coffee with quadruple the amount of coffee I usually have and throw it back, but even though it is extremely strong and sends me on a dizzy high, it's not the right kick I need. I need alcohol, the kind with a bitter shock that burns down your insides with every gulp.

I consider buying something from the store and heading back home with it but my grey matter tells me that the pub down the road will provide more of a distraction than drinking alone at home. I could start a fight, something that would make me feel alive again.

Once, just the once, Mycroft tried to convince me that pushing my emotions back inside would kill me from the inside out. I was ten years old at the time and he had read it in a book. I passed it off as preposterous but as I exited the bottle shop with my coat full of bottles, I realized that he was right. Damn him.

I still headed to the pub despite the sudden rise in my alcohol supplies. I did my best to hide the bottles in the deeper pockets and entered the muggy place. Squinting through the dingy room to the other side I noticed John swilling down the remains of a cocktail.

I smile when I see him chatting confidently with a young stranger, my heart lifting with the hope that he is not angry with me anymore. My confidence gathers, heart reaching out for John, and my feet almost gliding towards him.

But he's leaning over and their faces are close and they both smile and their lips collide. My whole world comes crashing down around me again and my confidence is replaced by utter heartbreak but my feet are still moving towards them.

I try my hardest to feel dead and numb inside but my mind cannot shut down; it yawps with white noise and takes over all thought patters, turning them to disorderly light and sound.

My hand is on his shoulder before I register that I am behind him. "John, what are you doing?" I snarl directly into his ear.

Perhaps it's my heartbreak and anger or perhaps it's still the side effects of almost being trapped in my mind palace accompanied by my coffee, but I lose all control of my own body. My hand clenches until my knuckles turn white and it pulls John from his chair. He gasps when he hits the ground but I don't care. My arm is already pulling him to his feet and dragging him away from the young stranger.

"You come too," I growl at him.

He stands stiffly, cowering away from me, "I'm s-sorry. I didn't know," his stuttering is pathetic.

"I don't care. Out," I snap and this time the boy obeys, following as I drag John onto the street. I feel people's eyes follow us as we leave, judging, trying to analyse us.

The street is cold and a piercing wind catches my coat and pulls it back. I thrust John away from me. "What do you think you're doing?" I spit at nobody in particular

John stamps his feet in frustration, "We're not even together."

"Not you," I glare at the young boy.

He quivers and lets words fall from his mouth in a splutter of words. "Look, I didn't know he was in a relationship, I just wanted to kiss someone and we got on so well. I don't know what I can say."

I frown at him, "You're still in school. He's twice your age," I snap.

"I know, I know but… hang on," his eyebrows knit together, "How did you know I was still at school?"

Because you're in your early twenties, it's obvious, I think at him. "Lucky guess."

"Just I'm studying medical and he was an army doctor and he was nice. Please don't hurt me."

He cowers, curling away from me. "I'm not going to," I snarl, although I'd love to. "Go," he scampers away. I spin on my heel to stare down John who stumbles a little in his tipsy state. "What have you got to say for yourself?"

"You already know."

"No, I don't. You have to tell me," I play his cards, forcing him to tell me something that I already know. He did it to spite me, to betray me because he knows all too well that he is my only true friend, even if he doesn't reciprocate the relationship.

Wobbling in front of me he spits. A globule of saliva lands on my cheek. "Fine, play with your school boys," I say, trying not to let my voice wobble as my emotionless shield fails. I wipe the saliva from my cheek roughly. I turn on my heel for the last time, knowing exactly what I would be doing in the next few hours.

I kick at loose cobble stones in the road as I leave John again. I tried so hard not to find him but I found him and I broke my own heart. My eyes prickle painfully.

I let the first of what I expect to be many rage and heartbreak filled tears fall and that's when I hear John yell, "Maybe I came here because I was heartbroken because the man I love won't confide in me for anything."

My muscles fall into a catatonic stupor. Man I love, heartbroken, man I love, heartbroken; I repeat the words. I struggle to do anything to react but to repeat the words over and over in my head. My lungs forget how to work and I am left feeling as though all the air has been physically pulled from my chest.

"I'm sorry," I hear him only faintly over the rush of blood around my body. My mouth is as dry as sand but I attempt to swallow anyway. "I'm sorry," he pleads desperately.

He appears behind me with loud stumbling footsteps. I don't turn, I just face away from him; I can't bear the thought of seeing his face. Even though I can't see him, I feel his hand lift and with its soft touch on my shoulder I regain the ability to move. I flinch away from him, "Don't touch me," I snarl, keeping a steady voice.

"Sorry," he says again he doesn't sound sincere.

I take my chance to escape. I step away hastily, almost at the end of the street. I count the metres until my escape onto the next road. Four metres. Three metres. Two. I freeze again. I need to say something, I want to hurt him like he hurt me. It's a terrible idea to hurt anyone intentionally, especially John, especially now, but I'm facing him before I have time to debate the matter.

Here it goes, the confession he wants. "You never even considered that I have emotions. You never even," I begin breathlessly, still not in control of my breathing. I take a trembling, tearful breath, "you never even considered that I was scared of losing you as a friend because I loved you and I know that nobody will ever love me. A friend is the closest thing I'll ever have to love. And I can't believe I'm telling you this while you're drunk," I rethink.

I flee again.

My first action is to head home, I scrawl a messy note and stick it on my own bedroom door, "Gone to stay with Molly, I don't know when I'll be back," I screw the note up. It's not right. I rewrite it, "Gone to stay with Molly, I don't know when or if I'll be back."

I leave in a cab just as John pulls up to our door in another. I press myself back into the shadows of the cab while I watch him press his forehead to our door and freezes there.

I have no idea where I'm heading but the cabbie drops me off at the morgue. I spot somebody in the alleyway nearby. With the intentions of starting a fist fight, I approach.

"Sherlock," the woman announces. Homeless network.

"Charlie," I acknowledge.

"We notices something strange down by the docks; seedy people leading a woman out of a shipping crate."

"Thank you," I slip her the few pounds I have left in my wallet save the fare for a cab ride to the docks.

A bottle of bitter liquid touches my lips as soon as both feet are on the pavement. It's gone before I reach the docks themselves and the next bottle is open.

Disoriented by alcohol I stumble around the docks searching for clues. Another bottle down and a haze sets in, clouding both my mind and vision. Hot tears burn my cold cheeks as I walk to another unknown destination.

My travel stops when I trip, bewildered into sticky mud. I search my pockets again and pull out yet another bottle. It tastes sharp and sets my throat ablaze but extinguishes my anger. I slip into a sleepless state of unconsciousness of mind. My arms still pour liquid and I still suckle at it and I forget.


	5. Idiot

Somehow, even with all the poison, the cold night and the unconsciousness I wake. The sun is almost above me and with it's overwhelming light, I remember everything. Everything up until the point where I entered the docks.

Where is here? Where am I now? I squint into the brightness around me. I'm still at the docks, near the drains; I must have stumbled off the pavement.

My phone blares in my pocket. I read the name on the screen squinting, still half drunk. John. I ignore it and reach into another coat pocket to find a can.

"My coat is like Mary Poppins's carpet bag," I giggle, slur on my words.

My phone starts to buzz again and I flick it to silent, knowing that it is John calling again. Finally a text comes through and I gain the courage to read it. "Sherlock, I know you don't want to talk to me and I know you're ignoring me but please just let me know you're alive. Please. I'm worried about you, we all are." Pathetic John. I take another fizzing mouthful.

I'm on my back, staring at my hands that seem to bubble and fade before me, when my phone rings again. I peek at the screen, screwing up my eyes in attempts to make sense of the letters. The letters blur together but I still answer it drunkenly.

"Sherlock?" Molly's sweet voice chimes.

"Molly," I answer.

"Lestrade was looking for you, said you hadn't come in today."

"Ah yes," I reply searching for an excuse, "I was checking out some locations," it would be believable if I hadn't have burped.

"Mmm? I was just wondering where you were, that's all."

"I'm at the docks Miss Molly," she giggles at this "Would you like to join me?"

"Sure, I'll come down in a little while. Did you want me to bring anyone with me?"

"No, that'll be fine, Molly."

"No? Okay then." I know she's going to bring John but there's no use in arguing. Molly's a stubborn woman when it comes to me.

Even so, when she arrives with John close behind her, I can't help but let anger explode within me. "I told you not to bring him," I spit at her.

She pounces on me, smothering me with her motherly ways. "How much have you drunk, Sherlock?" She says softly as she pries the bottle from my fingers.

I snatch the bottle back as if it were my baby, I suckle as the sweet liquid, "This is my first," I shout as I do so.

"It's not your first, anyone can see that," she replies, this time she snatches the bottle from me, spilling some of the precious liquid. My muddy body leaps at her, hands poised to scratch. I shove my entire weight into the small woman and she tumbles over her feet to land in the mud. Somehow the bottle ends up back in my hands. I gratefully slosh the last of the remaining alcohol into my mouth. I watch Molly try to stand but I leave her to wallow in the mess. She brought John here, she deserves it. I rapidly forget that I ever pushed her.

"Sherlock, you're drunk," John fumes.

"Evidently," I spit, throwing the bottle aside.

Stupid John, poor John, pathetic John. Everybody loves you but nobody loves me. My only friend, well, I thought you were. But you see, John, you never considered me a friend; you just used me so you had a place to live. Cruel John, unforgiving John.

I take a wobbling step but I do not expect him to take a steady, confident stride towards me. I scowl, looking him up and down, daring him to come closer. Yet he still steps closer, I swing a sloppy punch at him which he catches and, without a second thought, twists it behind me. I struggle in the mud, my limbs incapable of holding me upright and steady.

Eventually, despite my scrabbling for a foot hold my feet slip from beneath me. My face collides with the mud before John falls with his full weight on top of me. I trash beneath him but I can't find a foot hold. My limbs loose energy at a rapid pace until I finally lay still.

"Are you done with this stupidness, Sherlock?" He growls.

"Yes! Please, just take me home," I don't know why I say it; I don't want to go home, especially not with John. There's a noise coming from my throat, a wail, it's piecing and painful but I can't control it. I just wail and cry into the mud like an infant.

"Promise me that you won't lash out again."

I roll my head to the side so that I can see him in my peripheral vision. Can I promise it? I know that alcohol blurs perception and causes people to act out of character. I don't know if I can keep a promise like that.

He's watching me intently and I realise it's because he's waiting for an answer. I nod ever so slightly as a pesky tear pushes its way across the bridge of my nose. I've answered but John doesn't react, he's distracted by something, possibly a thought. His eyes search my face and land on my cheek. A thick finger meets where his gaze lands and he smears a spot of mud over my cheekbones.

He moved out of my vision for a second and I feel his arm beneath my chest. John, a man half my size, hoists me to my feet and hold m upright until we get back onto the concrete. Here I fall to the ground as my knees give way.

"I can't walk," I mumble.

"And I doubt you'll remember much of this," he sighs sadly.

I don't even remember how we managed to get in a cab in the state we were in.


	6. Rest

"Sherlock you have to sleep," John coos.

"I don't need sleep, we're on a case."

"I have no idea why you feel that you can deduce and remember everything when you're this drunk," he argues.

"I'll write it all down this time!"

"Yeah," he scoffs, not believing me.

"John, you said it yourself that this is a very important case. We're wasting time."

"Sherlock, just go to sleep. One day for you to recuperate, that's all I ask."

"It's not up to you."

"I think you're swaying into hung-over territory now," he says taking my temperature by placing a hand on my forehead. "You need to sleep. Do you want anything to eat?"

"WE'RE ON A CASE," I shout.

"Fine, fine. I give up." He stands up from my bed and leaves.

I stumble over to my door and press my ear to it. I know Molly's still here. "He won't lie down, he's just sulking as usual," John says.

There's a moment where they are speaking but I can't process the words.

"He's in good hands, you've done the right thing, John," Molly says.

"He doesn't want to see me though and I doubt he'll ever trust me."

"He won't hold a grudge against you," I hear the click of her heels as she moves to touch John "He can hate anyone in the world but you."

Molly! I knew I couldn't trust her. Molly Hooper who gossips with John Watson. "Maybe I should stay."

"No you should go," I mutter into the door.

I pick myself up from the floor to search for one of my disguised self-help books. I slip every book that I don't want John to know I own into a different cover; like that extremely graphic novel that was supposed to make me "crave" women. I have a handful of self-help books which I read in front of John at times when I need the help. The particular book is filled with calming techniques and the like, things that I could think of by myself at any normal time. However, when I need the techniques the most, I can't seem to conjure even logical thought patterns, let alone a strange calming technique specific to what I am feeling at the current moment. It doesn't help that I'm drunk on top of all the emotions.

The book isn't where I left it, or in its usual place on the shelf for that matter, it is pushed into the wrong place in the bookshelf. That can't have been me, I'd know what order the books go in (by author, then by height and then by width) with my eyes closed. My door squeaks open, "Have you been in here?"

"What makes you say that?" He stomps into my room and pulls down my blinds again.

"It's wrong," I panic.

"What is?"

He already knows what is wrong but I tell him anyway, "The room."

He pauses as gazes around the room, ignoring my comment, "Come on, you need rest." He crouches down next to me

"I'm fine," in fact, I feel more awake now than I did when John and Molly found me.

"No, you're not." His hand cups my cheek ever so softly. I lean my head into his touch. He's so warm and soft. "I don't think you've slept for days."

"I don't need it." I need my brain, everything else is transport.

"Sherlock…"

"Besides, I'm still in my clothes." I pick at my shirt but don't attempt to remove it, not while John's here.

"What do you want me to do, Sherlock? Baby you? Because you're acting like one."

"Why do you hate me so much?" I burst.

"I don't, I'm sorry. I'm just," He blinks rapidly, "I'm just worried about you, that's all. You need rest."

He doesn't hate me. This news comes as more of a relief than I expected. It rushes through me like a violently cold storm, clearing my mind of the frantic mess. He helps me to my bed and I lay my aching body down on the covers.

I can do this one thing for John. John, who doesn't hate me. I pull the strangely warm blanket over my body. John sits on the edge of my bed and watches me for a few seconds. My eyes flutter closed.

"Thank you," John whispers giving me a light pat.

My eyes flutter closed. Behind them I feel the faint drizzle of the euphoria that is sleep. The first few moments of slumber are always the most relaxing; when the muscles cease their jittering and the mind seems to slow from the speed of light to a low, slow hum. Of course it hasn't though, not really; studies have shown that the brain is more active when you're asleep and I suppose that is due to body repair and dreaming.

The hum sets in and I can finally relax. Partly due to my intoxicated state and due to the fact that John patted my thigh with a smile, I fall asleep with ease. I haven't fallen asleep like this in quite some time. My brain exits the conscious world chanting the words John had said to me.

John steps up to the very edge. This time I'm standing with him this time, for the first time. The wind is strong and pushes me to the side yet John seems to be able to stand stiff. I glance over the edge and gag when I see the roaring traffic pass beneath us.

"John," I'm pleading, "John, you don't have to do this." He can't hear me, "John, stay! Stay with me!"

His chest heaves heavily, just as it always does. His head raises ever so slowly and he keeps his eyes on the horizon as he lifts up his arms. The wind catches his coat.

"John! No, stay," I'm crying now, kneeling at his feet, unable to look down anymore. "John," I wail. "John, you won't do this!"

"Yeah, I will," I hear but it's distant, like I'm standing in another room and he's speaking at the same noise level he would use if I were in the same room as him.

I choke up and can't argue anymore. He frowns, not looking back at me but keeping his eyes on the horizon and then he falls.

I wake with a painful jolt as his body hits the ground below.

I rush from my bedroom but my legs are like jelly and I have to prop myself up against the door frame. John is standing in the living room, phone held to his ear.

"Look Lestrade, I'm going to have to go." He tosses the phone onto the couch.

"John," I manage, my voice frail and broken.

"I'm here," he appears at my side, arms already wrapping around me to hold me steady.

"John," I say once again, my voice crackling with a high pitch now.

He hugs me a little tighter when I wobble, losing control of my right leg for a millisecond. "Sherlock, you need to be in bed."

"I know, I just need. Just need," I can't seem to form to words. I can't bring myself to let slip what happens in my dreams. I just needed to see that he was still alive in this reality. My eyes see my violin bow separated from my violin and my body tried to move to fix it. My brain can only watch John falling from the building.

John presses up against me, stopping my body in its tracks. "We'll make a compromise," he offers, "You go back and lie down and tell me what you need. I'll get it for you."

I muster all will over my body I have left and collapse back onto my bed. My body wants to be transport to a brain that isn't working and prevent me from rolling over. Luckily Doctor John Watson comes to my aid; his large, warm hands roll me over, cover me with the blanket. He sits on my bed, hand resting over my waist, gazing expectantly into my face.

I search the depths of my dysfunctional grey matter for a request. I bit the inside of my lip lightly as I think, eyes exploring John's face again and again. "I want you to read me a bedtime story," I say, throat catching as I watch him fall once again.

He hesitated before asking in a clunky formation of words, "Which book do you want me to read to you?"

"Make one up," I hug the blankets to my chest pretending that I am holding John tightly.

"Okay…" He says already considering what to tell me. His eyes dance with the light on the ceiling. "Once upon a time there was a man who had just come back from the war in Afghanistan with a shot wound and a psychosomatic limp. He was alone; no friends, no family and he had nowhere to live. Then he met the most amazing man he'd ever meet." He drops his eyes back down to mine. "The man was a genius but he could see things that nobody else could," his eyes return to the ceiling. I let my eyes close, losing myself in his voice, "he's saved lives because of it."

He stops talking and seems as though he doesn't plan to tell the rest of the story. Even though I know exactly who and what this story is about but I need to know how the story ends. "Don't stop," I plead, "I want to hear the end."

His hand rubs and pats at my waist, "One day the man fell in love with the genius but he wasn't confident enough to tell him his feelings. He thought that the genius thought he was an idiot so he kept them bottled up until he broke his own heart."

"You're a terrible story teller," I mumble, trying to catch John's eyes. "Stories are meant to have happy endings. And that wasn't made up."

He gazes down at my and does the most brilliant thing; he smiled and chuckled with a dazzling shine in his eyes. I marvel at his grin, lost in the formation the muscles make in his face when he laughs this much. Happy, laughing John has always been my favourite John but when I am the reason he is happy I can finally pull myself out of the hole of self-hatred that I've dug for myself.

"Go to sleep," he laughs, leaning down. I think he's going to kiss me, I want him to, but instead he tousles my hair and gives me one lase smile before leaving.

Just as he reaches the door, hand turning and poising the pull, I remember one crucial section of his story. "And I definitely don't think you're an idiot." He pauses but doesn't turn around; even so, I know that he has a gleaming grin as he leaves me.

I smile myself to sleep.


	7. Dinner For Two

I sleep almost peacefully for the next couple out hours, only waking occasionally to check the time. The last time I fall asleep, however, I am faced with John standing on the edge of the building. I'm back to standing on the road beneath him, screaming his name.

But this time he doesn't get the chance to jump because the real John is shaking me into reality.

"Rise and shine sleepy head," he just about sings, "I ordered Chinese. I got your favourite."

"Are you sure about that?" I joke. He knows my order off by heart now.

"No," he laughs in reply. His hands wrap around my exposed wrists; come to think of it, where did my blanket go? "Up you get."

I manage to make it all the way to the couch before I even wobble on my feet. Although, stumbling at the couch is not entirely my fault as John's laptop case is placed on halfway beneath the couch. It seem suspicious, perhaps a test.

I sit in my usual place on the couch while John sits in his usual chair on the other side of the table. I wait for him to claim his portion of the rice before I take it from him. My hands jitter as I position the spoon.

Looking at John now, with the alcohol quickly fading from my system, memories begin to rush back, each scene so vivid it were as if I was reliving each one. My hand jolts unexpectedly, rice flying from the spoon, missing the place completely and covering the floor at my feet.

"I'm sorry," My eyes jump to view John. He sees the fear in them before I have the chance to remove it.

"It's fine. I'll just sweep it up after we eat."

"I'm sorry," I accidentally splutter again.

John furrows his brow in a look that I've come to know over the past couple of days as concern

"Sherlock? What's going on? You're acting… strangely." He leans in close and shovels an alarmingly large spoonful of rice into his mouth.

"I should be."

I don't think he even chews the rice in him mouth before he gulps in down in a giant chunk. "Why?"

"Because I overreacted when I saw you… saw you…" I can't say it, despite the fact that John was there; the John from this reality not the John from the reality of my dreams. Because I overreacted when I saw you kissing another man that was not me, I think at him hoping he'd hear but knowing that it is impossible.

I drop my eyes down to my still empty plate and fix them there. I have no right to feel this bitter jealousy. John has the right to kiss whomever he wants and if that person is not me I should just accept that. Somehow I think if I had seen John kissing a woman with such a drunken intensity it would not have hurt me so much but knowing that John is not straight, as I had assumed, hurts more because there was a faint possibility that he may have chosen me. Then, on top of all of this painful information, John confesses that he loves me.

"Sherlock, look at me."

People call me emotionless but I am not, I have so many emotions that I have bottled up inside for my entire life, I just don't know how to show them or use them or…

John places his plate on the table and stands. I think he said something but I can't remember. I watch his knees as he skirts around the coffee table between us and then kneels at my bare feet. I don't understand why he does this until my confusion and inquisitive nature drags my eyes to look at him. Damn. He tricked me. But he hasn't noticed my looking, not yet because he is distracted by his own hand which he uses to cup my face.

I feel blood rush to my cheeks like never before. I comforting, happiness blooms within me like a flower. His bulky thumb traces my prominent cheekbones, caressing them with a bubbling touch that I've never experience before. This time I press the full weight of my face into his hand, eager to feel his touch.

"It was never your fault," I watch his eyes while he speaks, trying to detect any hint of sarcasm or deception in his words. I see neither of these but he puts an honest emphasis on never by using his entire face. "You're right, I am an idiot."

"No, you're not," I interrupt before he can say anymore. He really isn't an idiot, I never thought it. Occasionally he'll do or say something idiotic but that's far from actually being an idiot. The first time I saw him I knew he was different and I soon learned that it was because he was intelligent but, unlike me, he was also loving and caring and socially capable; things that I am sorely lacking. I try to shake my head but find it held in place by John's hand.

"I am," he argues," I broke my own heart" he takes a moment and adds in a truly regretful voice, "and I broke yours."

I can't help but clench my muscles. I don't know why the idea that he knows that he broke my heart sends such icy panic through me; I did yell it at him in a buzzing rage. I think it is my fear of change, of losing John's friendship in particular, that terrifies me to the point of loss of muscle control. I used to be so good at keeping calm and in control but after one reoccurring dream and not even 24 hours since I found John snogging another man, I have lost all command over my arms and legs.

He tries to move away from me when my jaw clenches involuntarily. "Don't," I force through clenched teeth.

But he still moves, rocking back on his heels. The euphoria of our moment subsides as I realise that he has decided to move away from me. But contrary to my assumptions, John leans closer, his lip trembling and pupils dilating. Before I realise his intentions his arms have folded around my waist and I'm dragged to my feet.

I've never been this close to a human being before, even when I was a child, and I barely know how to react. His adorable button nose presses into my chest and I take it as an invitation to hold him tightly. I slide my hands ever so slowly around his back, grasping the cotton of his shirt. I squeeze him to my chest, intending to never let go and hoping that he can still breathe.

Something new erupts between us; a sort of tingly sensation that starts in my heart and swells through my dead corpse filling it with life. I fill with butterflies that flutter fanatically as they try to escape the agility of the swallows that playfully chase them from my toes right up to my head.

"Spring has sprung," I mouth, nuzzling myself into John's clean hair.

John repositions himself in the embrace, turning his face from my chest and pressing his cheek to it. His gasp tells me that I am definitely holding John too tightly. He rubs his head on my chest as if he were a cat.

"The food's getting cold," I chuckle as I loosen my hold on him.

He moves away from me and my happiness subsides knowing that our moment of life is over. I sit back on the couch, no longer feeling hungry for food but craving John's warmth. Still, I spoon tidy heaps of food onto my plate.

Contrary to my assumption, John simply leans over the table, collect his plate and collapsed onto the couch beside me. Careful not to spill the contents of his plate, he slides close to me, tucking his feet up on the cushions, and curls up at my side.

"Didn't think you were getting rid of me that easily did you?" He giggles.

I barely consider what I will reply with before I say it, but I know it's the right thing because it's the most truthful thing I've said in so long. "I never want to," I can't help but grin at John, my John, curled up at my side with an equally silly grin on his face.

I shove a heaped spoonful of food into my mouth, an obvious mistake when you're laughing, and predictably most falls from the spoon into my lap. John giggles beside me and, without thinking, I pout. He bursts with the poorly concealed laughter at this.

He mocks me humorously by shovelling an equally huge spoonful into his mouth but he purposely misses, food cascading into both our laps. I chuckle as I'm thrown into the childhood I have always wanted.

"Open wide," I command, heaping some stir-fry into my spoon. John opens his mouth so wide that I can count all of his teeth. I fly the spoon around before him, making aeroplane noises as I immaturely tease him.

He giggles, "You must still be drunk," and I force the gigantic mouthful through his lips. His cheeks bloat ridiculously as he attempts to chew; he almost looks like a chipmunk collecting food for the winter.

I giggle ridiculously again. "I must be, but it's…" I know a handful of languages and have an extensive vocabulary but I can't find any word that could describe such a feeling and do it justice. I settle with, "It's fun."

I involuntarily disengage from the conversation as my mind begins to wander back to when I was a child.

My mother had always been severely ill, battling various physical illnesses as well as severe depression. She was never able to care from either Mycroft or I but it was still clear that Mycroft was the treasured one. I was only 4 when the 11 year old Mycroft took over my care. Mother was constantly in and out of the hospital and the only other adults around us were either too busy working to care for us or addicted to drugs and alcohol and generally very violent. I never got a playful childhood, even after Mycroft started acting as my mother. I don't remember laughing at all.

I've always known my childhood way the reason for my sociopathic ways; the lying and the manipulation, everything that makes up me; But then John turned up and everything changed. I'd never felt like I'd felt the first time I saw John and I knew it was true.

I look down at my plate and find that it is empty. I swallow the last mouthful and smile at John as he gathers my plate. I rub my hands on my pants as I usually do but this time my pants feel crusty. I glance down at my still filthy pants.

"I'm going to have a shower," I announce when John finally returns to the living room.

He looks me up and down and then scans his own body, finding himself equally muddy. "I'll have one after you."

I leave without another word.

Stepping into the steamy water I let myself slip back into long concealed memories.

Neither Mycroft or I are sure why we weren't removed from the situation we were in. With a mother who barely made it out of the house except to go to either the emergency ward or psych ward, we were left to fend for ourselves; buying our own food and cooking it, getting ourselves to school and pretending that all was well at home. Luckily we had a handsome amount of money in the bank to get along with but Mycroft still got a job as soon as he could while staying in school and I vowed to do the same. I would have if I hadn't have found Carl Powers's shoes but I found my use to the world.

I slide from my childhood back to the scene in the lounge room, when John and I were pressed together in an embrace that brought back life to a dead body. Years of concealing all and any emotions, of lying and deceiving even myself are finally coming to a close and I can already feel the armour put in place by anxiety and hatred slipping away.

I watch the last of the bubbles wash from my stomach, rinse my face and twist the handles. I blindly reach for a towel and dry myself. I automatically reach for a clean set of clothes from the counter and find nothing. "Bollocks," I didn't actually bring any clothes with me.

I wrap the towel around my hips and place my hand on the door handle. I take a deep breath and sprint from the bathroom to my bedroom. I feel John's eyes follow me across the flat. I lean with my back against the door sighing heavily.

"I'm going to go for a shower, don't destroy the house while I'm gone," John's voice calls.

I slide down the door until I am sitting on the floor, towel still clinging to my hips. I laugh airily. This time I laugh not out of humour but because I've never been so happy. I can finally call John my own. I've finally found somebody who loves me, and I love every single millimetre in return.

The drawer sticks when I pull it but for once it doesn't faze me, I just yank it open. I slip on a clean shirt, pants and trousers and wander back into the living room expecting to find John already out of the shower but finding an empty room.

I slump on the couch, spreading myself across it and flick on the telly. I wait another five minutes before I check on John who has been in the shower for a total of 15 minutes now, much longer than his usual speedy showers.

"Are you alright John?" I say, wrapping on the door with my knuckles.

The water abruptly stops but I still wait for a reply.

A few seconds later I hear John's voice, "Uhh, Sherlock can you pass me a towel?"

I reach into the washing basket by the door. It seldom gets fully emptied, item such as towels and pillowslips tend to sit at the bottom because we haven't designated another place for them. I dig my hand to the bottom where I locate a neatly folded towel. I hold it just inside the bathroom door as I always do.

"Thanks," John mumbles.

I splay myself on the couch again, falling back into the terribly constructed plot of a soap opera. Whoever writes this has no sense of continuity and has absolutely no idea about the science of people.

Currently there is a bleach blonde haired girl, Rie, crying unrealistically at the feet of her sporty, long-distance runner boyfriend, Matthew, begging him not to leave her. He's obviously gay and in denial though, they haven't revealed it on the show but no straight boy would dress like with such a range of colours and patterns, use that much product in his hair and not to mention how he looks at his arch enemy, Daniel, in racing. I realise I'm being stereotypical but when it comes to dodgy soap operas, stereotypical is your best bet.

John surfaces from the bathroom just as he exits the room and the scene ends. In my peripheral vision watch John enter the kitchen while I keep an eye on the action on the television. Matthew has escaped to the race track to watch Daniel in training and there we go, that longing stare.

John hands me a coffee and sits himself down beside me. I sip at it a little before saying, "I want milk."

"Get it yourself," John says, he's only half paying attention now. I dare a risky glance at him to find him concentrating on the plot of the show.

"John," I whine, doubtful that he'll get me any milk. To my surprise he stands and returns with milk.

Matthew has just approached Daniel. Daniel seems a little shocked but not displeased by Matthews appearance.

"I broke up with Rie," he says. "I know how much you like her, I've seen you looking."

"I wasn't looking at her."

"Oh," he was looking at you, idiot.

John sloshes milk into my mug and thrusts it towards me. A wave of hot liquid splashes like a tsunami over the rim of the mug onto my lap, soiling yet another pair of pants.

"I'm going to have no clothes left at this rate," I mumble irritated. I take a tissue from the box John is now holding out to me.

I glance back to the television; nothing has happened the two boys have stood, one perplexed and one hopeful, in silence.

"I was looking at you," Daniel confesses.

"Maybe I'm trying to destroy all of you clothes so that you can't wear any," I hear John say. His eyebrow is cocked as though it was supposed to be read in between the lines but the crucial scene on the television is more gripping than trying to figure out a double meaning that I probably won't understand even if I get it right.

Finally Daniel and Matthew kiss and I silently celebrate. The credits start to roll just after a terrible freeze frame of the kiss. The credits finish and I'm dunked into boredom again.

"I want to play Cluedo," I announce, looking over to a sleepy John.

His eyes snap open wildly and his body jolt, slamming the coffee mug onto the table, "No, that is not happening EVER again."

"Why?' I place my own mug next to his.

"You know very well why."

"I'm bored!" I whine, throwing myself back onto the couch this time lying on my stomach.

"Go play on your laptop," he suggests with a yawn. He stands and fetches his laptop, returning back to his chair instead of re-joining me on the couch.

"Laptop," I ask, stretching out my palm.

"No," he replies bluntly.

I groan and roll myself onto the floor. John simply watches me as I drag myself around the floor in an impractical way. "You'll stretch your clothes," he says only vaguely noticing me now.

I walk back to the couch before sprawling out on it again. I angle the screen away from john so that I can peer over the top of it and watch him without him seeing my screen.

I scan through various pages of research. I was hunting for any cult stupid enough to publish anything that even hinted about murders involving only women. John taps away frantically and I know that he must be updating his blog.

I ponder for a while before typing 'what does love feel like' into the search bar. I investigate various credible psychology websites while I wait for John's speedy tapping to cease. I flick over to his blog as soon as he stops and refresh the page.

The link to the new entry shows on the main page of his blog. Its title is horrific and misleading, "The Hungry Homicide," it read. I click the link anyway.

I scan over the large chunk of writing mostly filled with unnecessary segues and only the most irrelevant of data but the most obnoxious of all the things John has written is that he constantly refers to the uteri of the women as their stomachs. He's a doctor for God's sake.

"Wrong," I declare.

"What is?"

I sigh impatiently, "It's not the stomachs that are being cut open. I thought you'd know that."

"I do know."

"Then why'd you write stomach when it's so obviously not!"

"Because it might be too confronting to the viewers if I tell them it was the uteruses of those women"

"Why?"

John rolls his eyes in my direction.

Confronting? The uterus is an organ of the reproduction system found in women. Only children might be alarmed by it, however, they would be alarmed at the thought of sex.

Plus, if the cult were hiding objects of worth inside the human body, the stomach would be the last place they would consider. With the extremely high acidity, the item would corrode making the object worthless, not to mention that the women would be unable to transport the objects as they would either die from poisoning through the corroding object or die from starvation, as the object inside their stomach would prevent most if not all digestion. These bodies had only been dead for a few hours and the first scars were months old. The whole idea is preposterous.

"Why?" I finally repeat.

John sighs disapprovingly, "Last night," he begins. He stops again, possibly choosing words carefully as he always does, although, they barely ever come out how he intended them to. "Last night you accused me of thinking that you don't have feelings, I never doubted that you did but I do know that you don't understand them."

"What do you mean?" I hiss. I try to push myself up into a sitting position so that I can observe John's face fully. "I know about all the chemical reactions that happen, I know what part of the brain are stimulated in the process, the physical effects of emotions-"

He cuts me off midsentence with, "Don't take this the wrong way Sherlock, but understanding emotions isn't about the science of it."

"But science makes the emotions, John!" I interject.

"Yes, but that's not the point. Understanding emotions is understanding how they feel and how they sit in your heart. Sometimes I wonder if you understand what you're feeling inside not if you have emotions or not because I know you do."

Oh.

"But, I'm a genius. How does this happen?"

"I worked with a lot of children and adults, before I went to war, who had trouble identifying or understanding emotions, particularly empathy. You're not the only one, Sherlock."

I reposition my body to face away from him so that he can't read on my face that I know he's right. I don't know why I should want to hide it, he knows he's right he's seen it before in many other people, but I need to hide it from him. I think it is because I am subconsciously trying to supress my bad qualities from John; with little success, I might add.

I grumble a random string of words into my knees and tighten myself into a ball.

I slowly fall in on myself until John speaks to me again. "I can help you," he offers.

I'm swiftly thrown back out of my shell to land at his feet. My body unfurls and I gaze at him. I attempt to nod.

Nobody has ever offered to help me with such honesty and emotion in their voice. It takes me a while, but I soon realise that emotion is love.


	8. The Inconsistency in Alternate Universes

John leaves me with no choice but to write up the case again.

"Due to my colleague and friend Dr John Watson's severely flawed description of our current case I have taken it upon myself to rewrite his last post to his blog.

"However, do not take these words as if they are my opinion of John. I treasure this man as a blogger, as a colleague and most of all as a friend more than anybody could possibly come to understand.

"As for the case, the culprits are particularly deceptive, masking the cause of death for both women with a separate cause. Both women have similar injuries, making the attacks look consistent. Usually identical wounds would signify that the same person is the murderer of both women; however, as usual, the group has made a fatal slip up; the wounds made in the second woman's flesh were made after the death.

"The answer is obvious: why would you make such an effort to make the murders look exactly the same if you murdered both of them? Therefore I conclude that the woman were killed by two separate groups, both of which work underneath a bigger entity. I can make the assumption that the second group with receive an adequate punishment when the higher authorities of the group learn that I have figured out the flaw in their plan.

"Finally

I ponder a while before eventually deciding not to continue my post any further, deleting the second paragraph and changing the first to:

"Due to the incompleteness of my colleague and friend Dr John Watson's description of our current case, I have decided to provide our frequent blog visitors with a further insight into the current case."

After hesitating for a ridiculous amount of time before posting it. I reposition myself from my back onto my stomach again and continue my search for both the chemical and emotional effects of love.

I make note of my findings in a new post for my private blog. The URL is the 15th to the 20th digits of pi 'the inner thoughts of a genius" all separated by hyphens. The login email is the 20th to the 25th then the 10th to 15th digits of pi with the words. I left the password almost unbearably simple, 'WatsonHolmes,' simple.

"It seems as though I have fallen in love with John Watson, as I had expected beforehand, yet I still do not understand the feeling. I know that the pheromones released by John have caused chemical defects throughout my body:

"Oxytocin and Vasopressin cause my attachment to him and my fear of losing him either through death or even in friendship.

"Dopamine, Norepinephrine and Serotonin combined could be an explanation for my sudden drop in my already waning appetite and sleep as well as my attraction to him. These could also affect my heart rate and limb control when close to him, particularly in an embrace such as before. Serotonin also has the added effect of infatuation and my complete and utter obsession with John definitely shows that there is quite a lot of Serotonin in my gut right now.

"I've always felt anxious when it comes to emotions because there are no clear formulas; everything is a bit hit and miss even when it comes to the chemicals that affect your behaviour."

I pause for a long moment before adding on what seems to be the most important section of the post.

"I also should mention that since that embrace earlier this very night, I have craved his touch. I could assume that my body has released testosterone. However, I should note before this night I believed myself to be homoromantic asexual despite having the very occasional time of sexual arousal but quite obviously, when with John, I find myself to be more homosexual. Then again, I have very little experience with the feelings of love before John arrived, so this might not be a clear basis to go on."

I do realise that nobody will ever be able to read these posts as the likelihood of somebody else finding them is extremely slim. This is the exact purpose of the blog, a diary that only I can read and find; much safer than the traditional written diary.

John whimpers, breaking my train of thought. I peer over my laptop screen to find a disconcerted John. His chin is freckled with dimples.

"John?"

His face flickers as he tries to unwrinkle his chin and brow but a hiccupping sob breaks his attempts at washing emotions back. John is the complete opposite of me when it comes to emotions, while I put a shield up and get called emotionless, John's shines from his face and he can't supress it back. Both have their own downfalls internally.

He chokes on his sobs dangerously. I have to intervene, I have to make him happy because John being happy makes me happy and…

"John, what's wrong?" I snap my laptop closed and jump to his aid.

He shakes his head as he splutters with another sob. He avoids my eyes entirely. I'm not like John, I can't manipulate people in the way that he does, I can't make them speak to me and tell them what's on their minds'.

I jitter on the spot a little before sliding up behind him. He shivers with another suffocating sob. I wait until it passes before I do the only thing I can think of, I place my hand on his shoulder and pat softly.

His whole body flinches away from me, disgusted by me, by my touch. I flinch backwards too, expecting him to lash out at me and hit me just like all the people I knew before I came to 221B.

"Sorry," he coughs. He stands abruptly and scampers into his bedroom, slamming the door loudly behind him.

I stand behind his chair, frozen in place, hugging my own body. I watch his door closely, hoping that he'll come back through it and tell me everything.

His laptop. I suddenly remember that he was reading something at the time. I click open the last webpage he viewed and scan over it. He was reading his private blog; I found it only a few days after he created it, it wasn't hard seeing as he'd left it open and logged in.

"Sherlock Holmes. He's an incredible man, a right genius. Except he's utterly emotionless."

The first line is enough information to go on with. I glance at his door considering whether to enter or not. Going into John's room is a bit like sneaking into a dragon's lair; you might enter and the dragon could be asleep and you'll be safe or you might go in when the dragon is awake and is in a bad mood and be ripped to shreds. I shake the temptation from my head and enter my own bedroom instead.

A quick glance inside tells me that I won't be sleeping here tonight. Mud stains my sheets in spatters and smears, not to mention my blanket which looks more like clay than a blanket.

I forget to knock on John's door before I open it with a creak.

"John," I whisper.

He grumbles a, "What," in my general direction.

"Uhh, I've got a problem…"

"It better be a good one this time," he groans rolling from his bed. I lead him from his room into mine, not daring to touch him in fear that he will reject me again. "What's wrong?" He says, glancing in.

"The bed," I point out bluntly.

This time he puts more effort into observing my room than a half-hearted glance. His nose wrinkles ever so slightly in disgust.

He scratches a place just behind his ear on his jawline thoughtfully. Every time he ponders like this, I take careful note, remembering everything about his expression. I wouldn't rate it as my favourite expression of John's, I love them all, but I love this one especially. There's that word again. Love.

"Uhh… I guess I'll sleep on the couch then," he runs his hand through his hair, eyes still locked on my mess of a bed.

"Wrong." I have an idea.

"What-"

"Wrong," I interject. I raise one eyebrow at him.

"You can't sleep on the couch, Sherlock. You're much too tall, you'll get a sore back," he argues unnecessarily.

Calmly I chew on my lip, lean towards him a little but turn at the last second. The internet told me this should work. I then sidle a few steps into my room.

"Well, I won't wash them until tomorrow so I guess we'll just have to share a bed for tonight." Brilliant, the internet is brilliant.

"Are you sure?" I whimper innocently.

"I'm sure," he says with a soft smile. His chunky fingers reach down, brushing my arm, to entwine with mine. He squeezes gently and I return the gesture before he leads me to his own room.

John enters the room and lies down where I found him, facing the centre of the bed. I stand before him, still fully clothed. I gaze bewildered at John who is also still fully dressed.

"I need- I need to change," I stutter.

He nods at me, swings his legs over the side of the bed and begins to change. I stare as he slips his shirt from his shoulders, engrossed in his movement, and exposes his surprisingly toned back. My eyes explore the scar on his shoulder carefully. Suddenly he decides to turn around. Startled I swing away and slide off my shirt which I have been absent-mindedly unbuttoning.

"I'm done," I announce, I frown as the strange announcement passes my lips. Why did I say it?

We lower ourselves onto the bed and I find myself unsure of how to behave in such a situation. I lie on my back on the opposite side of the bed with stiff muscles while John, curled beside me, succumbs to drowsiness.

I watch the fascinating rise and fall of his chest as he sucks in precious oxygen until temptation grabs hold of me and forces me closer to him.

I roll from the edge of the bed so that I am laying on my side. His head turns unexpectedly, his hazel eyes glistening through the dark; they flick and search my face. John blinks at me, muscles twitching. I have to get closer, I have to breathe the same air. I need to be closer.

In a moment of insanity, I nuzzle my face closer to his. I edge closer and closer still until the tip of John stubby nose grazes against my own sharply pointed nose.

"Sher-" He mumbles

"Shhh," I breathe.

I wriggle closer to him, repositioning the blankets over us. My chest is now pressed up against his arms and I can feel love and warmth radiating off of him. I sneak a slender arm across his stomach but just as I reach a comfortable position he inhales sharply. He doesn't want me so close. Disheartened, I retract my arm back to my own side but before I can fully retract it, John groans. His own hand pulls my arm across his body once more.

I feel his body fall back into the comfort of sleep, his muscles loosen and his breathing slows, but he turns his head to look at the ceiling. He's awake, but only just, so I take the gesture as an invitation to burrow my face into the crook of his neck.

Despite all my attempts to stay awake, sleep takes my exhausted body within minutes.

In my dreams I see John, but not as I usually do. This time his feet are planted firmly on the ground. Well, not really. They are actually tucked up onto the couch where he is curled in my arms. I feel so warm. My body tingles with love and pure happiness. We're watching trashy drama on the telly. Mrs Hudson has joined us and the chair that used to be John's is now designated for her.

It feels so real but somewhere in my gut I know that it's not real but I find comfort in the knowledge that when I wake John will still be held tightly in my arms.

I wake with John still in my arms but I don't dare open my eyes because I can tell that he is waking; his breathing is different. He stirs in my arms, yawning before climbing ever so gently from them. I feel him watching me for a few seconds before I finally hear his sleepy footsteps that graze the ground as he leaves the room.

I open my eyes ever so slightly to see him look back at me before he leaves. His eyes are full of an emotion I can't pick. I tiny smile flickers across his face before he turns for the last time and exits the room.

I slowly wake my body up, soaking up the last of John's warmth before I drag myself out of bed. John is in the kitchen, leaning on the bench with two empty mugs before him.

I rub the sleep from my eyes. "Black, one sugar," I say, escaping to the living room before he can respond negatively to my demand.

I fetch my laptop from the coffee table and balance it on my knee. While I wait for it to start up, I utilise my free time to check my messages on my phone. With a click of a button the phone glows with over 20 messages, most of which from Lestrade carrying on about something.

I scan through the messages: "We've found another body, GL," and "Answer your phone Sherlock," seem to be the most common.

"They found another body yesterday," I voice.

"Yes," comes John's voice, I look up to find that he has suddenly appeared in the chair across from me.

He is making it all too obvious that he already knew about the body: his fingers tap on the side of his mug nervously and he sharply inhales. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you were drunk out of your mind," he scoffs, "Do you even remember us finding you?"

"No…" I lie. I do remember it, it's hazy and I don't remember minor details but I remember.

"I didn't think so."

"What did I do?" I ask, playing the fool.

"Molly and I found you down at the docks, wallowing in the mud with a bottle of whiskey."

The laptop desktop finally appears and I am momentarily distracted by the start-up procedure.

"Sherlock," he snaps harshly, "You hit Molly."

Am I supposed to be upset by that? I throw the laptop aside and take a swill of the coffee John has made for me. I don't understand why this is significant. I was drunk and out of my mind, as John has definitely not failed to mention numerous times, and I was not in control of my actions. I did not kill her and, considering that she spent the afternoon with John in our flat, I did not injure her.

"Are you even listening to me?" John's disappointment comes in the form of a stabbing pain. It hits me just above where my heart should be and presses down, like a weight on my chest.

He leaves abruptly for his own bedroom, forgetting his coffee on the table. As the door slams behind him I realise that his misery is my fault. I have to do something to make it right. I grab my phone from the table and dial Molly's number.

I hesitate before calling her, processing the words to sound genuine when really I only care about John. They phone barely even rings before Molly answers.

"Hi, Sherlock," she chips, over-excited about a phone call.

"Err, hello Molly," I stumble intentionally, "John let me know about yesterday… Can you meet us at the café by our flat?"

"Oh, sure thing! I don't have to be at work until late today so I could pop by now if you'd like."

I let out a positive hum.

"Okay, just give me at least 20 minutes to get over there."

"Thanks Molly," I hum again taking the phone away from my ear. I feel strangely accomplished but the weight on my chest still presses in on me.

Without warning John's arms knit around my waist from behind. I start at the sudden warmth as his body presses up against mine. Somehow his lips reach my ear and whisper, "Well done."

The weight in my chest lifts so swiftly that I feel as though I've been catapulted into the air. I spin in John's arms, not allowing him to loosen his grip, and pull him even closer to me. Sensing his relief, I gaze down at him and watch his warm brown eyes as they gaze into my own, dull grey eyes.

I can't help but smile down at him when he stands on tiptoes so that he can rest his head on my shoulder. Gently I slide my bony hand up his back and along his spine to cup his muscular shoulder blades. He responds by rolling them back into my grasp. I find myself lost in the movement of his muscles and bones, unable to think of much else, but he stops rolling them shortly after he starts.

I chuckle airily and tousle John's silky hair.

"Come on," I lean down to whisper in his ear, "We need to meet Molly at the café."

I sigh. Why did I say that? No part of me actually wants to see Molly, or anybody else, except from John. I move hesitantly away but before I have removed myself from his personal space John jolts forwards, the crown of his head colliding heavily with my chin. A large snap sounds as my jaw crunches shut, catching my tongue on the way, but the pain doesn't seem to matter because John is caught in my arms.

Our moment of affection is rudely interrupted by my phone buzzing in my pocket. Trust Molly simultaneously ruin things and repair things between John and I.

I try my best to sound excited as I answer the phone, "Molly! Hello. Yes, we'll be down in just a second… John was… uh… debriefing me about my behaviour."

I grin down at John while I shove my phone back into my coat pocket. His face is splattered with forgiveness and pride.

Turning for the door I hook my arm through his, like I've seen in pictures of lovers, and hope that it is the right move to make. His entire body freezes and my momentum forces me to swing around in front of him.

I try to read his face but all I read is fear. How can that have frightened him enough to freeze? I glance behind me to see nothing threatening. Perhaps he doesn't like me being so close to him. Unsure, I ask, "What's wrong?"

"I just…" his throat catches. I watch his throat as he swallows hard and starts again, "I'm just not ready to let everyone know yet."

I'm not sure if he doesn't want anybody to know about us or to know that he's gay. Either way I can't see why it should trouble him. "But it's Molly?" I finally say, slightly scandalised.

A beefy hand caresses my cheek, "I need time."

John's watery brown eyes gaze into mine, my own reflection held within them. In my reflection I can see the pain that I have failed to disguise on my face. In his face I see my pain reflected in his. I can tell he despises his need for time but I have no choice to allow him the luxury of time.

I can't stand watching our pain so I use the only escape I have at hand: the impending doom that is our meeting with Molly. I force my head to nod and I stand out of John's way, holding the door to our flat open for him.

I stumble after John down the stairs to meet the inevitable train wreck that I am somehow even less inclined to join after that conversation than I was before.

John and Molly breathe their brief greetings and I, in a hurry and eager to get this over and done with, ask, "Coffee?"

I take care to mimic Molly's usual chirpy voice but she is the opposite. "Tea for me today," she says hesitantly, actually thinking through what comes out of her mouth. For once.

I lead John and Molly through the crowd to our usual table. By 'our' I am referring to John and I which leaves me reluctant to bring Molly to this particular table. Nevertheless, we sit.

In silence we wait for our beverages. I find myself glancing at John every few seconds just to see him. My eyes feel as though they are attached to him by strings and every time he so much as breathes, the stings are pulled taut and my eyes have no other option but to survey his face.

I watch the wildlife in the times that I am not staring at John. I know which waitress is assigned to our table before she fetches the tray with our drinks on it. I can tell by the way she keeps glancing over at us. I also know she finds John attractive by the way she leans over his shoulder, breasts dangling on his shoulder. I doubt John has noticed how horrifically close she is to him, even so, I have to clench my fists around the base of my chair until me knuckles turn white to stop myself from lurching towards her.

"Molly, I would like you to accept my apologies for my behaviour yesterday," I start, still staring at the waitress as she leaves.

I glance to Molly who gags on scorching hot tea.

I turn to John, "Bad?"

"Bad," he confirms, "Wrong time."

"Damn," I mutter under my breath. I wait for Molly to encourage me onwards before I proceed.

She coughs once more and manages to splutter, "Thank you."

"Apologies," I repeat, feeling as though I need to explain further. "But you must understand that I was not in my own mind at the time."

"I do," a sweet smile creeps across her lips. "But I have a rather blue bruise to prove that it happened, I couldn't sit down all night," I try my best to look extra apologetic.

John's coffee mug slams down on the table, startling Molly slightly. "I didn't even have to tell him to call you which is a rare occasion. I think it means that he's truly sorry." What John says is true but I can't help but think that it is only to an extent.

Molly smiles her girlish smile up at me. "I accept your apology," she giggles.

I want to tell her about John and I, so that at least I don't have to pretend to not crave his touch when we are at the morgue; that I can handle. "I wanted to tell you something else but John won't let me tell you," I bite my lip harshly, knowing what kind of position I have just put John in and regretting it immediately.

I watch John closely. I watch as he runs his hand through his hair. I watch as each follicle splits and then proceeds to fall perfectly back in place. I watch as he turns scarlet. I watch as he swallows the lump in his throat and opens his mouth to speak.

"Uhh," He squeaks. The frog in his throat returning.

He's not angry at me, he doesn't feel anything towards me at the moment; I can tell that much. This is about him and at the moment he can't do anything that involves speaking.

I search for a subtle hint, a helping hand for John. A helping hand. My hands. Hands are intimate but subtle.

I flex my scrawny hand wide until it brushes against John's limp hand that hangs by his side. I watch as his eyes flick down to my hand and up again to meet my eyes. He doesn't understand what I am hinting. His face is now as pale as mine, full of fear and confusion.

This is supposed to be your area of expertise, I think at him, I just read it in a book.

So I repeat myself but this time I hook a finger around his momentarily before withdrawing my hand slightly. Finally, John understands and his sweaty palm curls into mine and his fingers entwine with mine. I allow a small flicker of a smile stain my lips when he looks back up to me to check if he is correct.

"John?" Molly asks again.

John jumps and squeezes my hand as if he'd forgotten Molly's existence. He gazes at me once more for guidance. I nod carefully once again and finally, after so much hesitation, he raises our hands above the table for Molly to see.

He glances back at my now beaming face before consulting Molly.

I look on with pride as Molly squeals, "Congratulations!"

John stutters slightly, "I'd still appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone else about this," but another look at Molly's overwhelmingly joyful face and he begins to giggle a little.

"Of course not, that's your job. Your secret is safe with me," she grins.

I squeeze John's hand to draw his attention to me as I shuffle my chair ever closer to his. We sit almost shoulder to shoulder now, hands resting between our knees as we sip on our coffees.

I don't engage much in the conversation, despite my good mood, I just sit back and enjoy John's happiness and the clutch of his hand in mine.


	9. Boys

Molly does an awful lot of talking when she could use her time more valuably by just thinking. Eventually she checks the time on her watch and announces that she'd better get back to the morgue. She leaves quite quickly, obviously she's delayed leaving for too long and it now late for work.

John and I head up to our flat shortly after she leaves. I grasp onto his hand for as long as I can until John releases his grip to open our front door. I try to catch his hand again when we reach the landing but he's already throwing his coat down and reaching for his laptop.

I wonder aimlessly around the flat before finally settling on gathering a few books from my room. I am instantly distracted by the muddy and unkempt state of my bed.

I turn to face John in his chair, "It's still dirty."

Well of course it is STILL dirty, Sherlock, that was a stupid thing to say.

"I'm happy for you to keep sleeping in mine," John proposes.

I turn to regard the room for a long moment. "I suppose I could transform it into an experiment room."

"Will you keep your promise this time?"

John cringes a few seconds later, possibly remembering the last time he forced me to keep experiments to one confined space. It was too difficult to conceal my exploration of the chemical reactions of mammal blood to particular household products.

Or perhaps he remembers the time he found various body parts which I had crammed into the fridge. They would have come in handy for experiments if John hadn't have discarded them.

"I never promised," I confess.

"I'll be at the laundrette if you need me."

"Doubtful," I say throwing myself onto the couch.

John crosses the room and begins to strip my bed of the dirty sheets. This gives me time to flick through one of cleverly hidden relationship books and decide that I should go with him.

I fetch the washing basket from beside the door and hold it out for John when he returns from my room. He dumps the washing into the basket and takes it gingerly from my hands.

I shift on my feet anxiously and grasp the skin on my neck. "Can I… Can I come with you?"

John doesn't even hesitate, "No."

"Why not?" I ask, disheartened.

"Because last time you came to do the washing with me you got bored and started analysing people out loud."

"That woman was obviously being cheated on by her husband! You saw the way he was clinging to his phone. She had a right to know her husband was gay," I defend.

"You didn't have to yell it at them. Wait? Gay? I don't remember that bit…"

"His shirt looked like the buttons were going to pop off and hit someone in the eye, it was so tight," I huff. Not to mention the accessories on the collar.

"Just because he wears tight shirts doesn't mean he's gay. You wear tight shirts," the words reel through his head and his hand slaps the side of his face, almost sending dirty laundry tumbling to the floor. He repositions his hands just in time.

"I thought you would have realised sooner," I smirk at him. I've been wearing overly tight shirts since before I knew I was gay. If anyone should have noticed sooner it should have been me.

"Fine, come with me but stop bullying me," he laughs.

I hold the door open so that John can pass through with ease. As soon as we reach the street, I move up beside him and relieve him of his basket carrying duties.

"I can carry it, you know," he grumbles gruffly.

"You shouldn't be carrying things with your shoulder," I note.

"That was years ago. It's more than fully healed."

"It's not possible for something to be more than fully healed," I correct.

He ceases his arguing and allows me to carry the basket the rest of the way down the street. John leads me into the shabby looking laundrette and down to the far end of the place where he gestures for me to pass him the basket.

He begins stuffing sheets and dirty clothes into the machine until they are overflowing.

"Don't we need another machine?" I ponder aloud.

"It'll fit," he says, giving the washing one final shove and slamming the door shut.

While he is busy organising washing liquids, I take the opportunity to survey our surroundings.

The place is close to deserted, close but not quite. There is a lady behind the dry-cleaning counter lounging lazily with a well-read gossip magazine that is two, maybe three, issues out of date. Bedraggled posters peel from the walls and, for a shop dedicated to cleaning, the place is crawling with dirt and grime.

John returns to my side, fiddling with the washing liquid, when young man enters with a small amount of washing in a bag.

"Stop it," John sounds from beside me.

"Stop what?" I reply half-heartedly. I recognise the young man as the one who I found kissing John two nights ago.

I observe him from head to toe. I've just started drawing conclusions when he turns to see two grown men watching him fold and pack his clean laundry into a bag. He seems alarmed, obviously recognising us.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, contemplating what my next move should be.

"Sherlock?

"Let's go talk to him," I order.

"What," John begins to protest but I give him no chance to escape and drag him behind me. I want to meet the man that John fell in love with in minutes and only loved me after he broke my heart.

John keeps protesting by pulling back but I easily overpower him with pure determination.

"John?" The boy says as we near him.

"Hi," John wheezes.

I watch the boy carefully, he seems intimidated by me. His eyes flick between John and I, keeping an eye on me with fear and pleading with John childishly. I grasp John's hand to reassure myself more than to comfort John.

"Good evening," I chip in a sing-song voice. A hideous fake smile on my face disguises my hatred.

"Look, I'm so sorry about the other night," the boy stutters, "I didn't know he wasn't single."

"He was single at that point," I clarify.

"I'm guessing he's not now," he says glancing down at John's hand held firmly in mine. I caress John's hand with my thumb slowly until Chis removes his gaze and returns it back to mine. "It's too bad, he's a fantastic kisser," he jokes.

I ball my hands into fists at his comment, crushing John's hand in the process. How dare he say that in front of me! I was there that night, anybody could see how broken I was. I lost all control of the armour that I am now placing between us.

There are a few moments of unbearable silence where I throw dagger eyes at the boy and he watches me nervously.

He shies away from my threatening figure and turns to speak to John, although he never really takes his eyes off me. "Do you want to meet my boyfriend?" He offers.

Perfect. I can find out about him, his life his home and his boyfriend.

"Of course," I say so sweetly that I make myself sick in the stomach.

"How about we meet up for a drink sometime?" The boy replies.

"We're free tomorrow night," I laugh, faking exuberance.

"How about the one we met at the other night, I've got friends there that'll give us nice discounts," he suggests. . "Anyway I better be off, James will be waiting for me."

I make a mental note that James is the boyfriend.

"See you around 9."

The boy packs the last of his laundry into the bag and lifts it to reveal a name. Chris. Only boys write their names on their belongings.

John waits until Chris has left for the street before he tosses my hand violently away from him. "What did you do that for?" He snarls, bubbling with anger but trying to hold it within.

"I want to meet the man who you kissed," I reply truthfully.

John turns swiftly and without another word he pushes past me, purposely knocking me with his shoulder with force. He crosses the room to slump on the bench in front of our washing machine. I sit gingery beside him, not daring to touch him just yet.

"Sorry," he mutters quietly, "I just feel so horrible about that night. It was a mistake."

"People make mistakes, John," I try to reassure him, although I cannot forgive him, not yet.

"You're just saying that to make me feel better."

"Yes," I reply bluntly.

I gaze around the now empty laundrette. Well, nearly empty; there is that utterly dull woman reading the magazine. "Bored," I sigh.

"I knew you'd do this," John groans. There's a faint jangle as he fishes the keys to our flat from the depths of his pockets. He pries my fingers open and forces them into my hand, "Go home and play on your laptop, I'll be home in 15 minutes."

"I don't want to," I complain. I shove the keys back into John's jacket pocket.

"Entertain yourself then," he grumbles.

I obey his order and do what I've been craving to do since he let go of me at the door before we met Molly. I inch closer to him on the bench, observing his body language carefully and reading the signs. I curl my arm around his waist and pull him ever closer. John doesn't jump away from me, despite his current bad temper, but leans in towards me. I interpret this as an invitation to slide a hand across his lap to lock our fingers.

Instantly I feel the spark of warmth followed by the furious explosion of heat that climbs between and through us. It is fire, I can feel it flicker and burn, tearing up my insides as it spreads, but I feel no pain. I feel quite the opposite. Like all these years of loneliness, addiction, and mental illnesses never existed. Like this moment is the only moment. I feel another existential crisis deep in my bones but this time I welcome it. It calms me and I am flung into reality; the reality where I love John and he loves me.

I nuzzle my nose into John's neck sleepily. I can smell him now. Even the most familiar of smells are hard to describe and John's scent somehow categorises itself into both the familiar and the unfamiliar categories. It's invades my nostrils but it is not pungent; pungent would imply that I dislike the smell. No, I could drown quite happily in his smell. John's smell is piquant.

I can feel John drifting in and out of sleep in my arms and, despite having slept for longer than I've slept in months combined, I find myself following him. His heavy rhythmic breathing does nothing to aid my attempts to stay awake so I give in to heavy eyelids and warmth.

A loud buzzing and beeping stirs me slightly; my eyelids, however do not seem to want to lift. I shift slightly in my drowsiness and fall willingly back to sleep, still cradling John in my arms.

A hand shakes me awake but it takes me less than a second to work out that it is not John's hand. I shake the hand away and open my eyes.

"Boys, your laundry is done," announces an ugly voice. A man stands over us now; he's fat, shabbily clothed, unhygienic, middle aged, single and probably will be until the day he dies. "Not kickin' you out or nothin', but we do have other customers and all."

"Sorry," John mutters sluggishly.

I nuzzle my head into his neck slightly, no longer paying attention to the man. Despite this, John nudges me with his shoulder. I gaze up into his soft face, pouting in an attempt to convince him to stay in our embrace.

"Come on you," he laughs with an infectious smile.

John folds the washing and places it back into the basket. I offer to help with the bedding but he dismisses the offer claiming that he can do it himself. The result is a not-quite-rectangular mess of sheets and blankets.

He holds up the basket and I take it carefully from his grasp. John leads me outside, unlocking the door to our flat and holding it open for me. I now wonder how he could have done this on his own every week and feel a pang of guilt. I vow to help him with the laundry every week that I can.

Glancing through the flat into my bedroom I remember something that I noticed while heavily intoxicated.

"I know you were in my room the other day," I announce. It was the curl of the sheets before John dumped me on them that morning. I never make my bed and when I do, I don't lie on them again. The blankets had a ripple of a human body curled in the centre. I don't curl up in bed, I lie flat, but John curls himself into a ball on most nights. I know it from observation.

"I was cleaning up the broken lamp. Which reminds me, why was that broken?"

One of many existential crises, I think in his direction. "Experiment on the velocity of glass shards and it's relation to penetration on impact with skin," I lie aloud. I wave my hand to signal that we are getting off topic. I toss the basket aside, "But that's not what I mean. It's obvious you were in my room."

"How?"

"The bed was made when you brought me back home," it's doubtful that he even remembered making it.

"Sherlock, you were drunk out of your mind. How did you even notice that your bed was made."

"I'm still a genius even when I am drunk."

He laughs his charming laugh, taking one last step so that the tips of his toes meet mine. Both of his hands embrace my sharp cheekbone but this time, instead of simply caressing it, he guides my face forward until our foreheads collide delicately.

"You are definitely not a genius when you are drunk." I feel his happiness sink into a sadness. He sighs, like he's about to say something that is tearing him up inside. "I don't want you drinking tomorrow night… or ever again."

I nudge him carefully with my lengthy nose. My nose slips to the side of his, into his fleshy cheek. "I promise," I whisper. With my lips almost touching his, I promise with my entire heart and mind. For once in my life, I promise so truthfully that it hurts in the pit of my stomach. It is not the fact that I am making the promise that hurts me, but the idea that I have to make the promise. I can't begin to imagine how John felt, but I know it hurt and I don't want to hurt John anymore.

His mouth opens slightly and he exhales. I breathe in his air and hope this breath lasts. I feel an overwhelming need to tell John everything that's on my mind. I concentrate on his hot breath on my face and hold his air tightly in my chest

"John," I breathe, suddenly remembering that I haven't taken a breath in far too long.

I raise my neck so that I can gaze into his eyes. The light from the window hits them in the most perfect way so that they glow the colour of cinnamon. His lips follow mine upwards as I withdraw my face upwards. I plant a loving kiss on the very tip of his handsome nose. John presses his body against mine with just enough force to knock me off balance.

"John," I gasp again, putting my hands out against him to steady myself.

John blushes a deep red. His drops his hands to pull at his jumper. His eyes drop to his feet in what I believe to be shame.

I go on with my confession nevertheless. "John, I've…" I breathe and start again, more surely. "There has never been anyone who has caused me experience such emotions as you have. I don't understand it."

John glares at me, but not in a hateful way, he stares in anticipation. "You've never been in love before?" He says abruptly.

"Everyone else is tedious and an idiot," I declare.

"You call me an idiot and boring all the time!"

"On the occasion, yes, but not always, you do have some traces of intelligence." The statement was supposed to be a compliment but it doesn't come out that way.

"I'm just going to take that as a compliment although I'm not entirely sure that it was," John says with a confused tone.

I allow myself to let a small smile creep onto my lips. Our conversation has come to a standstill and somehow I am unsure of how to continue it, so I let it fade and look for an escape. My escape comes in the form of the now clean bedding.

"I'm going out to the morgue after I fix my bed," I announce, collecting the sheets and duck into my room.

I wrestle my sheets onto my bed and step back to view my work. It barely looks any different to before John ripped it off the bed. All that is different is the now almost blinding white of the sheets.

I fight with the blanket for a few seconds more, lining it up with the head and foot of the bed. For a person with obsessive compulsive disorder, I don't do well with tidying. Mess is fine unless I need it to be in order.

I turn back to the living room where John waits patiently. I slide on my coat and exit, John dawdling behind me. I wave for a cab when I reach the curb.

Eagar to see this new body, I just into the cab and recite the address to the cabbie before John has seated himself. This particular woman could have died over 24 hours by now; possibly more, time doesn't feel quite linear when you are drunk.

Molly greets us at the morgue to lead us to where the body has been stored.

"Since we didn't have either of you with us when the woman was located or when she was brought back here, I got another doctor to determine the time of death," she stumbles anxiously.

Get on with it. I exhale loudly.

"Sh-she was dead for 5 hours before she was located at midday yesterday," she says quickly.

"Who was the doctor?"

"Not Anderson if that's what you're thinking. I know how much you hate him."

"Good, you've actually learnt something," I compliment.

Molly falls silent but instead of smiling and thanking me she frowns. I thought people usually appreciated compliments. I look to John for guidance but he shakes his head with a grim face. I feel a frown blemish my face. "Show me," I snap at Molly.

Molly scans down a list on names and locations on her clipboard excruciatingly slowly. I ball my fists in my coat pockets to stop myself from snatching the clipboard from her grasp and locating the names myself. If it were just Molly and I, I would do it to save myself from the tediousness of the situation but John is here too.

"Sorry we didn't have her out already, we didn't know you were coming."

I supress a groan of pure indignation.

She turns around, still reading the room number on the list. She walks unbearably slowly with the tiniest of steps the click and echo down the deserted hallways.

Finally she turns into the room; the same one as all the bodies from this case are stored. I could have told her the number of the room. She bends down to one of the drawers.

"This is the one," she mouths with one final check of her list.

The drawer is about two foot from ground and quite old meaning that the woman is no longer on a stretcher but rests on a tray. Molly unlocks the drawer and pulls in fully open.

Already I can see that she is short in stature and quite thin; she's younger than the other two, I can see this already. I move to retrieve a scalpel from the nearby bench.

"Unzip her," I order Molly.

As the face and body are revealed, I instantly begin to analyse her. She's young, still in school, I assume; no older than 17, no younger than 15. She has an abnormal coloration on her fingers, pigment either dye or pain. An art student. The amount of dye that stains her finger nails from the outside all the way to the centre tells me she loves art, basically all she ever does. I will have to investigate further into her personality later.

I take a quick look at the scars on her abdomen; her shirt has been rolled up around her chest already, possibly by the doctor who determined her time of death. The pair of wounds on this girl's body are different to the wounds on both the older women. The first is no unlike the other but the new one is vastly different. While the other wounds were carefully cut but stitched with a careless hand, this girl's wound has been both cut and stitched with immense care.

"Interesting," I mutter as I notice the marks on her upper thigh. She's been scratching at it until skin has been removed and started to bleed. I scan her face once again but this time I notice a globule of vomit in her hair.

"Where are the other two?" I announce.

She steps to my left and heaves another drawer open, "This was the second and the first is in the drawer next to her the third on your side, John."

I take in the first woman's naked body and then the second. Neither show any signs of skin irritation; no scratching or rashes. The second woman was drowned, so she quite possibly regurgitated and it was washed away.

The most recent woman has a gash on her neck, obviously made some time after her death considering its cleanliness.

Each woman appears to have two causes of death. Interesting. Drowning, suffocation, heavy bleeding, neck injury and what I currently assume to be poisoning; although, I can't be sure yet.

"This one's different," I declare.

"How?" John asks stupidly.

"Look."

John gazes down at the girl with a heartbreaking grimace on his face. He blinks slowly, still staring at her but not observing anything.

"I can't," he finally confesses.

"Think objectively and observe."

"I can't, Sherlock. It's a young girl."

"Oh, nobody cares, John. It doesn't matter," I blurt before I can stop the words from tumbling out of my mouth.

John glares at me sternly. She's young, but she's dead. Why would anybody care? Neither of us knew the girl personally, so why should John be so upset about her? I look to Molly for guidance but she just glares at me with John.

"She's a child, Sherlock," John moans.

"She's dead; she can't hear us or do anything about it so why should I care about her except as an objective clue to this case."

"Morals, Sherlock. Or don't you have any?" John snaps.

Ugh, morals. "They're too time consuming and they blind people from the facts and lower the intelligence," I groan. I dismiss the thought with a wave of my hand.

John growls, "I don't even want to know why you think that," but I choose to ignore this pointless conversation and continue on with the more important situation at hand.

"Uterus, that's obvious but this one is slightly different from the others because she also has a fresh wound on her neck," I begin. "It's not deep enough to kill her but due to the angle of the blade the incision looks as though it were deep enough. The only logical option, considering the state of the other women's necks, is that they are trying to frame injury to the neck as the cause of death. But this girl has not been drowned like the others."

I turn to Molly and abruptly announce, "We need to test their blood."

She hesitated, staring at me with a horrified expression, before eventually reaching into a nearby drawer. She fishes around the draw for a moment before pulling three sterilised scalpels out and three petri dishes to go with them. She hands them, with shaky hands, to me. I rip a scalpel from its plastic packet and mark it with 'W1' for woman 1.

"With any luck, I'll still be able to scrape a little blood from the arteries for testing."

I cross the room and gently lift the wrist of the first woman. With a steady hand I make my first incision, astonished to find a few small droplets of blood. It's not much but it's enough. I hold out one hand to Molly for a petri dish while scraping the sticky blood from the veins with the other. She marks the lid of the dish with a '1' in bold writing. While she does this I smear the blood into the clean dish and pass it back to her.

I rip the next scalped from its packet and move to the second woman. I mark the scalpel with'W2' and a nearby squeak of a marker on plastic tells me that Molly is marking the respective dish.

I cut into the wrist of the woman but am disappointed to find an inadequate amount of blood. I take what there is, wiping it on the dish and move to her other wrist. Here I find enough blood to add to the small amount I've already collected.

I step to the final girl and find a large globule of blood in her wrist.


	10. Walls of a Cell

I can almost hear John glance up at the clock.

I recite the list of evidence to John for what seems like the hundredth time in the last hour or so. We don't have much to go on, but it's enough. I've figured out about the motives of the group, why they use the uterus and not the stomach, cause of death of two women so far but there's nothing about the cult itself that gives me any clues as to their whereabouts. I'll have to contact the homeless network as soon as I figure out the cause of death of the girl.

I observe the first woman's blood and compare it to the girl's blood again. There's something different here.

John stands behind obnoxiously me as I swap the dishes once again. He shuffles on the balls of his feet before his stomach lets out a thunderous rumble in the silence of the lab.

"Shall we go grab a bite to eat," Molly says quickly.

"Uh, yeah. Do you want anything Sherlock?"

"Coffee, black," I answer, trying to hurry them out as quickly as possible. I don't both mentioning the sugars, trusting John.

"Food?" Molly chirps loudly.

"Slows me down."

Finally they exit leaving me in silence.

I squint into the microscope, into the small circles of mammal cells. I swap from the second woman's sample to the girl's. I zoom in ever closer.

There! Traces of a cell wall.

I focus on the single cell perfectly. Suddenly the structure of the cell comes into view; a perfect cell wall, vacuole and, most importantly, a nucleus. It's a eukaryote, ruling out bacteria and the like. But not a plant cell either, it lacks in chloroplasts. The only cell group left is the fungi group.

There are thousands of poisonous fungi, most haven't been discovered yet, but I can't just leave it there; I have this overwhelming need for the information I lack in. And what's worse is I am on the very edge of finding out how she was poisoned. A mushroom of some sort, obviously, but which one. To find out exactly what poisoned this girl, I need to analyse the molecular components of this fungi. I'm not entirely sure how knowing the type of fungi that killed this girl will help me with the current case, but with the little knowledge we have to go on, any little piece of information will help. This could never be a waste of time. The solar system, that's a waste of time when you consider my work, but a brief knowledge of poisonous mushrooms is not.

Carefully I pluck a small portion of the dried blood from the petri dish. Hopefully the sample will contain not only some of the girl's blood cells but one of the many fungi cells as well.

As the computer scans and analyses the sample I have provided for it, I allow myself to plunge into my own thoughts again. It seems nowadays most of my spare time is devoted to thinking about John. This moment of spare time is no different because John drifts into my mind like a cloud.

Thinking about John takes me on a familiar journey. First: I think about him; his physique, his mind and even the emotions I feel when he is close. Second: I am drawn onto the subject of my dreams. Usually this is soon followed by an existential crisis but this time I linger on the dreams.

The computer beeps four times at half second intervals, signalling that it has located all of the different molecules. I dismiss a handful, knowing that they are parts of the human blood and move on. The first unknown substance is labelled as (S)-2-amino-2-(3-hydroxyisoxazol-5-yl) acetic acid. I enter it into Google not waiting for the results before investigating the next substance. This one is labelled as 5-(Aminomethyl)-isoxazol-3-ol. I enter this into Google as well. There are still many more unidentified substances but two is often enough to identify a culprit.

After very little research (S)-2-amino-2-(3-hydroxyisoxazol-5-yl) acetic acid proves itself to be Ibotenic Acid and I find 5-(Aminomethyl)-isoxazol-3-ol to be a chemical called muscimol. Both are found most primarily in the Amanita genus of the fungi family. Both have hallucinogenic qualities but this isn't a type of mushroom you'd consume for recreational purposes because if consumed these mushrooms have an almost guaranteed outcome of death, especially in younger persons.

"Amanita Mushroom," I gasp in reaction to a coffee mug clinking on the table beside me. I drag myself to my feet to survey the girl's body once more.

"What?" John asks, a little startled.

"It's a type of mushroom, quite common and poisonous. It affects the liver, kidney and heart and leaves to outer body relatively unscathed," I summaries from the information on the computer screen.

It's fascinating really. The consumer will experience nausea, ataxia, low blood pressure and sweating but also hallucinogenic symptoms such as euphoria, relaxation, loss of equilibrium and both auditory and visual distortions. This is all while the mushroom attacks you kidneys and liver, destroying them completely. It's a terrifying experience, you'd assume, and the consumer is conscious the entire way through. On top of all this, some consumers experience severe skin irritation, proved by the skin on the girl's thigh that has been scratched raw.

"It's a violent death and they are conscious through the entire thing but they can be paralysed with stomach cramps. Look at the scars though," I draw their attention to the girl.

John drags his eyes to the scars. I give him the chance to observe again. "It's different." He finally says, his voice solemn. Still two scars but this one's carefully stitched."

"Precisely," I praise. "Which means either the murderer of the first two women learned how to stitch properly, which I highly doubt, or this one was done be another person leading me to suspect there is a cult." Which we assumed already but at least it's confirmed now.

"But why women? Why these women? And why are they masking their causes of death?"

Finally. "Now you are asking the right questions!"

Suddenly a cog clicks in my mind. I look at the bodies again. Those scars can't have been recent. The second woman's scar is too healed to be a recent scar, but she's been kept alive for months since it was made.

"The uterus replaces the lining once every month and there are only a few ways to stop it. There's the pill, hormonal implants, IUD and IUS. They are all contraceptive methods that can result in the loss of a period. But after observing their blood for foreign components I found no trace of the pill in any of their blood. The autopsy from the bodies would have revealed an IUD or an IUS, excluding the third as we have not investigated the wound yet."

There's just one more way of stopping the menstrual cycle. I roll up the both sleeves of the girl and search for implants. Repeating the action on all three women, I find nothing. So, no birth control.

I turn back to the girl and take a scalpel to her wound. I retrieve six staples from a drawer behind me and pin her skin open. "Look," I command.

"Pregnancy?"

"What?"

"They weren't supposed to get pregnant after they had damaged the uterus, they took the baby out," he says, unsure. Oh, he thinks that the women were pregnant, more specifically, pregnant by accident. He thinks that these murders are the cult removing all bastard children.

"Obviously not, the uterus was sliced into with a rough cut, the damage would have halted the menstruation cycle altogether. Then it was cut open again. Tell me John, why would they have cut into the women twice and only killed them on the second occasion," I groan, impatient with him now.

I sighs an irritated sigh, "Why did you go through all the forms of contraception then?"

"I needed to be absolutely sure that we were correct about the storage of items. There is no other reason, when all the facts are considered, that the uterus should be cut into twice. While the second woman's first incision is relatively recent, possibly only a week old and not yet fully healed, the other two are older and could have been present for months. I would say transport but that's obviously wrong, considering the age of the healed scars, so evidently they were cut open to mark their place in the cult."

"But why take it out?"

"Stupid question," I snarl, "I've made it blindingly self-explanatory! Molly?" Surely she's followed me. Surely somebody has.

I can see her brain come to a stand-still, freezing under the apparent pressure I have put on her.

I'm surrounded my idiots. "So that we can't trace it back to the source!" I present to them. But John and Molly just stare at me with bewildered expressions. Impressed, but bewildered all the same.

John eventually nods and hands me a parcel of food. I give him a disbelieving glance, hoping he'll take it away from me, but he thrusts it at me again with enough force to convince me to take it. I keep telling him that food slows me down but it is late and I've done all that I can do tonight, I succumb to the bothersome whisper that is my survival instincts telling me to eat.

I unwrap the package to find a greasy burger. I devour it slowly, making sure that I look particularly unhappy about doing so. However, I sip my coffee gratefully.

I ensure that I've eaten slowly enough so that Molly finishes minute before I do.

"Do you need to bodies anymore?"

"No," I struggle, my mouth full of food.

She turns without another word. She covers the women with their bags, careful not to displace the staples, and zips them up. By the time she's rolling them back into their drawers, I've finished my dinner and have turned back to the laptop.

I delicately place the lids onto the petri dishes and ask John to store them in the fridge for me. While John is busy with that I back up all my research to the morgue's main data base and my laptop.

A few minutes later I am waving at the side of the road and climbing into the cab. To my despair, John allows Molly share our cab and sit in the centre. As a consequence I spend the entire trip to Molly's flat staring out of the window of the cab on my usual search for every building John has ever jumper off in my dreams.

It's hard to spot them in the dark and even harder when I have only ever seen the last two buildings from the roof as I attempt to talk John down from the ledge.

The painstakingly elongated trip to Molly's apartment finally ends with John awkwardly climbing out of the cab to let Molly onto the curb before we drive away, leaving her alone outside the door to her building.

John tries to discretely glance at me but when he catches my eye he flinches away shyly. I let out a long low sigh, ensuring that John can hear me perfectly.

"What?" He frowns at me.

"Must it always be me to make the first move?" I chortle.

"Quit your whining and come here," he chuckles as he punches me playfully on the shoulder.

"I'm taller," I announce with a pout.

He giggles like a child and punches me again, refusing to budge. I cross my arms, looking serious, and press myself into my seat as defence until he pinches me, forcing a low chuckle from me. I hit back at him.

"Oi," he laughs.

"You're home, time to pay up boys," the cabbie announces far too soon.

I hand him his payment and slip out of the cab, pulling John out by his hands onto the concrete outside our flat. I swing him around me, almost dancing with him, and toss him towards our door. John reveals the keys from his pocket and attempts to unlock the door but my playful fingers tickle him until he is shaking with laughter. He laughs to hard that he misses the key hole. He pushes me away from him, sending me flying backwards.

Finally he opens the door and I chase him indoors, staggering as my shoulder collides with him.

Mrs Hudson's voice sounds from inside her flat, "Quiet boys, it's late!"

John and I try our best to rush upstairs with stifled laughter. Still pushing and shoving immaturely, we end up in my bedroom, John backed up against my bed. I take my opportunity and tackle him onto my bed. I land on top of him and I pin him down with a hand on either side of his head.

John's teeth gaze his lower lip sending a warm tingle through my body. Serotonin washes through my body and I can focus on nothing but John lying beneath me. Gently, I lower my weight onto him until I am close enough to touch him. Our chests slide together and for a moment there I swear I can hear his heartbeat. My nuzzle his button nose in an Eskimo kiss.

John giggles wildly. His arms wrap around my torso, squeezing me like a boa constrictor, dragging me closer and closer. I search his face, centimetres away now, and take his hint. I haven't been able to do it since now, I've barely even thought about actually attempting to kiss him, however, this moment is so wondrously perfect.

Still, I draw it out for as long as I can, lowing my head unbearably slowly. A flame ignites when out lips touch; it's flawless and raw but it doesn't burn. Our lips only touch gingerly, but they touch. His lips are so soft and his kiss is so delicate that I'm scared that I'll break it. But he begins to lead me in a slow rhythmic smooch so I let the flawless flame consume me whole.

How do people do this for extended periods of time? I can't breathe. I surface from our kiss, trying not to gasp for air. It's not like I haven't kissed anybody before, I have, I'm just out of practice.

I rest my forehead against his as I take a stuttering breath. I am considering moving in for another kiss when a thought invades my mind. The only time I've told John that I love him is when I was hurt, broken and angry. But now I feel almost confident to tell him that I do because he loves me too. "John," I begin shakily, "John I think I love you."

Even with my eyes shut tight I know he has ceased up. Still I wait before I extend my arms, still at either side of his body. Now I can see his face. I hesitantly bring it into focus, hoping for a smile and expecting a look of pure disgust. I see neither. His face is vacant. I was wrong; he doesn't love me, he doesn't even have fond feelings for me.

"John… I'm sorry." I use my remaining energy to roll to his side, already falling into self-pity.

John's voice breaks the silence between us. "Sherlock, why is there a sticky note on your roof?"

I look up. Oh, that note. OH! John's standing up on the bed, reaching for the folded corner. His fingers fumble with the corner, just out of reach. I take my chance and snatch it from its place on the roof before John can achieve a proper grasp on it. John leaps at the note from the bed with great energy but his height is his downfall. I hold it just out of reach, laughing again. Finally John has had enough of jumping around me and he tackles me with the full force of his shoulder. I lose my balance, falling back on the bed. His knees press to my sides so that I can't escape and he pries the sticky note from my fingers.

Sherlock Holmes, John Watson," he laughs. I can't tell if he's flattered by my childish love note or offended by it. Chances are he's offended by it, considering he obviously doesn't reciprocate my feelings for him.

"I know, I know, it's not good," I defend. I begin to sweat with panic; I may have just ruined every chance I ever had with a man like John.

"No, it's not," he says seriously. I feel the stabbing pain of another mental breakdown. Please stop, I plead with my eyes. "it's not good, it is perfect."

His face is suddenly close to mine, giving me an Eskimo kiss. I freeze, confused. "And, just for the record, I love you too."


	11. A Survivor

John plants a kiss on the tip of my nose. "I'm knackered," he yawns, rolling to my side, sticky note still in hand.

"Mine or yours?" I ask

"What?" John asks without thinking first. "Oh, the beds. I want to sleep in yours, with you in it this time. That's if you're sleeping tonight."

"I must work on the case and sleeping only slows my mind," I say with the hope that John will complain enough to convince me away from work.

"Just one night," he groans.

"Out of the question," I automatically reply. Now I'm actually going to have to work. I should write up my findings for John so that he can log them on his blog correctly this time.

"Then I'm going back to my own bed."

He drags himself from my bed, procrastinating at my door momentarily but I'm already reaching for my laptop. I assume John must have moved it back in here. While I wait for my laptop to start up, I hear John collapse onto his bed.

Not too long after my computer loads, I have finished documenting tonight's findings. I glance at the clock at the bottom of the screen. It's almost 3am, my usual bedtime. I throw my laptop aside and lie back on the bed but it feels strangely wrong without John. I lie still for a few minutes but I cannot welcome sleep. It seems as though one night lying by John's side has left me with a certain dependence that means I can no longer sleep alone.

I change into my bed wear and creep through the flat to his door. I pause with my hand on the handle; should I still go in if he's asleep? I know I've done it before, I've sat on the floor in his room on numerous occasions but climbing into the bed with him seems wrong somehow, even if I am invited. Still, I push on the door and it silently swings open.

He stirs slightly but I'm confident he's still asleep. I manage to tiptoe across the room to the side of the bed but I fail to judge the distance and end up slamming my knee into the chest of drawers of the opposite site of the room. I backtrack slightly and lower myself onto the bed, pulling at the covers.

"Finished you work?"

The suddenness of John's voice startles me. "I was trying not to wake you, I read that waking people who are sleeping is a bad thing…" I blunder. My eyes adjust to the darkness a smidge so that I can now see the outline of John on his bed. "It's something about the importance of sleep and not being woken from a deep slumber because your melatonin levels decrease when you're concentrating on something-"

"Shhhhhh," John hums.

His arms open wide, beckoning me in but I stand my ground just like I did on the cab ride home. "I'm taller," I protest.

I open my arms this time and tempt him closer. His teeth flash white in the dark through a smile. He wriggles closer until I hold him firmly in my arms. He buries his head into my neck and drapes an arm over my stomach. I sue the arm pinned beneath him to draw tiny patters across his back with a fingertip. I trace his scar and along the shoulder blades. After a while I barely notice that I'm doing it, it just feels natural. I sneak in a kiss on his forehead.

I feel drowsiness waft over both of us and I fall gratefully into sleep where I land in a familiar yet unfamiliar dream.

John is at the top of the building, on the edge, and I stand behind him grasping his hand, staying away from the edge.

"Look at it all," he says, "look at the life."

I look, holding his hand tightly as I gaze over the edge. "John, can we move back?"

"Why?"

"You know why," I gulp, "Because of the dreams."

"Sherlock, look at me." I look at him now. "I'm not going to jump. Never again. I'm here with you now."

I sigh with slight relief but I still tug at his hand. He refuses to budge, still staring down at the world.

"Don't you trust me?"

The question hits me over the head with the force to scramble my words. "Trust, yes, I do." I take a breath and begin again. "I trust you, I do, but sometimes I can't predict how you're going to react."

"You're not supposed to predict or deduce, Sherlock."

"But that's what I do," I argue.

"It doesn't work like that in love. You just have to let it happen."

With this he sprints towards the edge of the building, not looking like he plans to stop. "NO," I yell, "JOHN, STOP, PLEASE."

And he does, just centimetres from the edge, "You don't trust me. I told you but you wouldn't listen," he says.

I wake with start in John's bed. I backtrack against my thoughts to correct myself. I don't wake up in John's bed, I wake up in OUR bed. I blink sleepily and turn to face John. He is so peaceful in sleep it almost seems a shame to wake him. Although the truth is, I like John when he's awake better. He breathes life into my lifeless body just by being here.

"Coffee," I say, announcing my awakening as I always have.

"You snore."

"Hmm?" I reply, not quite sure I've heard him correctly. I frown as I piece together the letters again.

John worms closer to me and kisses me daintily. "You snore," he repeats with a pulchritudinous smirk.

"I absolutely do not," I argue, his grin growing wider.

"You do," he teases, poking me in the chest playfully. He rolls out of bed and asks, "Coffee?" before prancing out of our room.

"Black," I pause for a second before noting, "I don't snore, John."

"I should have recorded it, you were very loud," he calls.

I join him in the kitchen now. He's grinning stupidly now. But it's not the kind of stupid that offends me; it's sort of comforting and entertaining. "Are you positive it wasn't you who was snoring?" I defend.

"Yes, Sherlock. It was unmistakably you," he says whirling about the kitchen.

"I've never snored."

"We'll see what Mycroft has to say about that, shall we," he threatens.

But John knows how sensitive I am about my brother, doesn't he? I've told him many times. I've never been more honest about anything in my life. Well, until now.

"Don't you dare," I warn.

"Calm down, I'm not going to," John replies, but he replies in a certain tone that leaves me suspicious about his true intentions.

I search his face; his eyes have fallen from amusement to seriousness. Nothing makes sense. "A-are we going to break up?"

John stands before me dumfounded. A jumble of words clatter from his tongue, "Break-up? What do you-? Why? Wha-"

I stop listening after this, allowing him to go on spluttering words at me that only seem to confirm my deduction. He wouldn't have made such a big deal about my snoring if it didn't bother him. He wouldn't have threatened to consult my brother, damning me to another world of bulling by both John and my brother this time. Mycroft would eventually play mother and try to fix me, again, by putting all the pieces back wrong. I don't want John to fix me like this; I want him to repair me like he's repairing me now: on his own.

"What do you mean?" John bursts eventually forming a string of words that makes sense.

I explain it to him nervously, "Break up. You don't like my snoring. We were fighting."

John's jaw flaps about stupidly as he gathers the right words. "Sherlock, for one we weren't fighting in any sense of the word," He starts carefully. "Secondly, I actually think your snoring is pretty cute. Third, we are DEFINATLEY not breaking up because I love you way too much."

He likes my snoring, I smile to myself. We're not breaking up, John is mine and I am his. Us. He hands me a steaming mug of coffee. I take the lead and glide into the living room. OUR living room.

"Find anything more about the case," John queries, settling down into his chair.

"Yes," I reply, eyes fixed on a dot on the window.

"Care to share," he says encouragingly.

I huff in laziness. I haul myself from my position, retrieve my lap top and drag the wooden chair from the desk beside John's chair. I plonk down and open the laptop.

"Amanita mushrooms grow in the forest areas of Europe and America, dependant on very particular environments to grow," I simplify. There are many types of these mushrooms, most are very common and grow just about anywhere with cool environmental temperatures. However, the most poisonous generally only grow in very specific environments. "The fungi are purely poisonous meaning that they would not have been imported from these locations for leisurely use."

I look towards John, hoping for him to deduce what I am about to tell him now. Sadly, he doesn't follow and as usual I have to explain it to him word by word.

"They have either been planning to kill these women for some time now or have been prepared to kill them since their initiation into the cult in case they broke vows. However, it's obvious that their murders were not because they broke the vows."

"How?"

"They would have been more brutally murdered and tortured. Common in cults…" I piece together the facts.

"But they were tortured and brutally killed; they were drowned and fed poisons that take hours to kill," John interjects.

"Yes, but you have forgotten the fact that the item was carried only for a short amount of time, a month at most in every victim. I did some research and found that these murders have been made before, less frequent but the same nevertheless. They are good transporters and what better way to transport something illegal than by hiding it inside a human body, particularly the uterus which was made to protect a human life. They held information that was not intended to be given to the opposition," I pause to let the information sink in. "Us, John. They don't want the people that can stop them to find out anything. Quite obviously these women would hold some information about the cult and, if left alive, they could pass what little information they know to other people, hence defeating the anonymity of the people involved and their intentions."

I contradict my initial theory. They aren't killed because the broke the pact, they were killed because there was a possibility that they would break it. Secrecy is the key to cults and if any of this information got out their cult would be at the sharp end of the knife.

"I wonder how much of this stuff they need to transport," John mumbles.

"These three women aren't the first, they are the beginning to the trade in London but not the beginning around the world. There have been 62 similar cases documented around the world in the last three months and the murders have generally occurred in capital cites of states, territories, counties or regions. This wasn't a cult, this is an organisation," I realise, "and I'll be very surprised if there isn't another murder today."

In the silence of John taking in the hoard of information I have just recited to him, his phone bleeps in his pocket.

After fumbling it out of his pocket, he raises it to his ear swiftly.

I can only barely hear Lestrade voice through the phone, "There's another one and you better come quick because she's still alive."

"Where?" he asks hurriedly. But I already know where, she'd be in the Royal London Hospital; she's a witness to a perennial murder case after all.

On the cab ride to the hospital I build my emotional barrier again. I distance myself from John so that I have the chance to do some valuable work without considering John's reactions. Despite my shield, I can't help smiling because finally we're getting somewhere with this seemingly dead end case.

She's been moved to a private room in the hospital for questioning, but just as I am about to swing her door open John places a hand on my wrist.

"Sherlock you need to be sensitive about this," he warns, swinging himself to stand in front of me.

"I don't understand."

"Remember when you thought that I thought you had no emotions?"

"Yes," I say, hurt and knowing exactly what this leads to: John's disappointment.

"I know you have feelings but you're not particularly good at conveying them, especially to victims," he comforts. "Just try your hardest to be human."

My brain can't comprehend the term. "I am human," I state, waiting for an explanation but John just turns from me to open the door.

The room is almost blinding; stark white, lit with more the enough fluorescent lights. In the centre of the room a weak looking woman lays on the bed. Her dark hair splays out from her head like a black halo. I take in her body; she's very weak from her blood loss, she also shows symptoms of inefficient poisoning. Her hands lie limply by her sides and but her eyes flash open as we enter.

"Good evening madam. I am Sherlock Holmes and this is John Watson," I introduce, dragging a chair close to her bed. "May I ask your name?"

"Laura," she whimpers. Her accent isn't from London, but it's from this continent, that much I can tell. I search her over again now that her eyes have opened. She's in her late twenties. A large stone on a golden ring shows that she's engaged but there are no flowers by her bed and no signs of visitors. Her fiancé has either not been notified about her attack and her location or he has been targeted by the organisation.

I soften my voice us much as I can bear; trying my best to sound calm and sympathetic. "Laura, I want you to explain what happened to you." John watches me carefully as I speak but when I finish I glance over to him and receive an accepting smile.

"They slit me open and took it out and they were about to poison me when my boyfriend came home and they started attacking him and I ran with my stomach still cut open. I lost a lot of blood." Funny, she's obviously engaged but she still refers to him as her boyfriend.

"You need to tell me who they were and what it was they took out," I urge.

She struggles to take a breath as she recalls on information, , "They call themselves Salvatores Liberis. It means-"

"Saviours of Children," I interrupt. John pokes a finger between my shoulder blades fiercely. I recalibrate my sympathy and wait for Laura to proceed.

"You know of them?" she stammers .

"No, I just understood the Latin. Go on," I urge, slowly becoming restless.

"They cut into the uterus and make you impregnable and leave something inside."

"What is it? What do they leave?" I snap, momentarily losing my patience with her. Witnesses are both the most useful and the most useless of all crime scene clues.

I can see my gruesome scowl reflected in watery eyes for just a split second before she bursts into a fit of violent, shuddering sobs. John's arm wraps roughly around my arm and drags me out of the chair. I stagger across the room, away from Laura.

"Not good," I say, half questioning and half admitting.

"Very 'not good'," he scolds, "That was poor, Sherlock, she's been traumatised and is extremely mentally unstable," I glance back at the weak, sobbing shell of a woman. "Let me handle this and we'll see if you can question her anymore." He's not asking, he's demanding.

He passes me, not waiting for my reply, and takes my seat. His voice is soft when he coos her name, enticing her out of her shell. Laura, it's okay, we are just very distressed about what happened to you and we are truly sorry but you are protected now, they can't get to you," he lies.

She nods, wiping away the last of her tears. "You don't understand what I've been through," she squeaks.

"I've fought in the war, I was traumatised beyond reason and when I finally got home it was because I'd been shot. I understand it," he lies again. He wasn't traumatised by the war. I scowl at him but I don't argue. He leans a little closer to her, "Would it be okay if Sherlock asks you a few more questions? I'll keep a closer eye on him this time," his voice is slow and softer than I've ever heard it.

"Okay," she whispers, taking another rattling breath.

John stands, grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me down so that he can reach me ear. "Be nice," he hisses.

I take his seat and wriggle my fingers through his. I soften my voice again, "Laura, do you have any idea what the object is?"

"No, they knock us out before they put it in, but it's big, and stretches out the stomach a bit."

She writhes in her sheets, pushing at the covers until her wounded stomach is revealed. Laura hauls herself up in her bed so that she now sits upright. Gingerly, she pulls the stark white cotton from her abdomen, revealing a messy purple scar that follows the more recent tender pink but carefully stitched line down her stomach. Her stomach, however, is not as pale and flawless as the skin on her chest and limbs; this skin is stained with gruesomely purple stretchmarks and twist and turn like the roots of a tree.

Her wound, however, is no different from the other women's but then again it is difficult to tell seeing as the hospital has restitched it and managed to destroy any evidence that could have been located there.

"Mine was bigger than other women's."

"Did you see it when they took it out?"

"No, there was too much blood and I was too scared to look down."

I withhold a groan. "How long was it-"

"Two weeks," she interrupts. Finally, we're getting somewhere at a reasonable pace. "Two weeks ago they put it in and escorted me from Wales to London by car a few days later; I've been here in London for a while. They told me to wait."

"Who?" I yawp, on the brink of a revelation that could catch me this cult. I have just enough time to see Laura jump at my exclamation before John's stiffened hand whacks me across the back of my head. I clear my throat again, rubbing the back of my head tenderly. "Who?" I ask more softly and patiently.

"All I know is they're called-"

"Salvatores Liberis. Yes, you've said that. What did they look like?" I urge her.

She winces a little at the combination of my rushed tone and the memories I've brought to the surface. "I don't know they wore costume makeup, they looked like devils and now, looking back, they didn't look that scary," she breathes a weak, airy laugh, "I guess things are different with a gun to your temple."

"Could you draw their faces?" I query, pulling a pen and a small notepad from my coat pocket.

I hold it out to her as encouragement. "I can try," she accepts, repositioning herself in the cot once again. She hesitantly takes the pen and paper from my grasp. She uses quick strokes to sketch four faces that she only half remembers but when she hands the notepad back to me, her sketches are perfect and strikingly aesthetically pleasing. She has used principals, elements and composition in a quick sketch almost as if they came naturally to her. Impressive is the only word that comes to mind.

Still, I dismiss the possibility of a connection the last girl and Laura through art. And while the girl was an introvert with very few friends, Laura here is engaged. There's no connection there.

"Why didn't your boyfriend help you escape? Did he come from Wales with you?"

"No, he lives in London; I had to pretend to be coming to see him. They have him; they're probably torturing him until he dies." Her eyes flutter in vein attempts to fight off the tears that now occupy her eyes. "He didn't know about any of this until he walked in on it."

"Thank you, Laura. You've been a wealth of information to us. You have deserved your rest."

I tense my hand, somehow still entwined in John's, as a signal that it's time for us to leave. He only resists momentarily giving Laura a fond and appreciative smile before he lets me lead him out of the hospital and onto the street.


	12. Like the Blind Banker All Over Again

"I suppose you want me to look those faces up on the internet then, Sherlock," John sighs, fatigued.

I jostle the notepad from my pocket and prod it in John's direction. "It's not important or relevant," I assure when he snatches from my fingers. "Their intentions were to stay anonymous while intimidating their victim enough so that she does whatever they request of her."

He processes the idea for a few seconds before agreeing. "Do you have any idea of what the object could be?"

"I have a few ideas," I thrust myself into a world of text, pictures and clues that circle me like a shoal of fish circle around a shark. The room I stand in no longer exists but I voluntarily leave John in my conscious surroundings. "The stretch marks on her stomach suggest something large but the direction of the swelling suggests that it was heavy and the body could not cope with the strain. That rules out my inkling that it was drugs, although it would be logical to keep it inside somebody as it would go virtually undetected, so I will keep that idea open as the other women did not have such marks."

John nods, following my every word.

"My other idea was that it could have been a stone or metal of some sort, one that does not rust or decompose. Which is quite likely in Laura's case, however I am not convinced by this idea because there is no logical reason why it should be stored in a woman's body," they'd be located with metal detectors. I swipe away the idea that it might not be metal or stone.

John's voice sounds; drawing my attention to something I've known for a lifetime, "Some people are just plain psychopaths, not geniuses."

"But the planning behind it, John!"

He allows me some silence while he contemplates and I take the opportunity to do exactly the same thing.

"Why would they have to store objects inside a body though?" I mutter to myself.

Safe keeping? Yes, that seems to meet all the clues. It's virtually undetectable; even if located by a metal detector, nobody would think of actually looking inside the woman's body. But what needs to be kept so safely. Drugs, although illegal and quite likely, are usually kept in soft plastic meaning that they are problematic when it comes to removing from the woman's body with a scalpel. Although it could have been stored in some sort of container that doesn't decompose and can't be cut through easily with a knife. I scan the pictures in my mind but as I push them away something catches my eye. It burns so iridescently that it sends shockwaves down my spinal cord and projects me forwards.

"AH!" I roar, startling both John and myself. "They're stolen. Obvious."

"What?" A bewildered John exclaims.

"Whatever they are transporting, be it drugs or valuable items, is stolen. Put it in a bag or a suitcase and chances are somebody's going to find it. But who is going to look inside a living body for such an item apart from the people who know it is there." I feel a goofy smile tear at my cheeks.

"This sounds like the Blind Banker all over again, except more morbid," John breathes to himself.

I try to ignore his mistake but my overwhelming need to educate him betrays my intentions. "Not in the slightest. And I wish you would let me name our cases every once in a while."

"No, not again."

"Oh, come on! My last one wasn't that bad and you didn't even use it."

"Your last one was horribly offensive to both the victims and their families."

I'm guessing he hasn't updated his blog entry about the "hungry homicide" again because I change the title to "the stolen births" after he told me off.

"Do remind me of it," I say, grasping his shoulders.

"Not a chance," he protests

John's eyes are wide and glistening warmly, enticing me closer but I can't resist. But it's more than that. I can resist, I could just turn my face away and step back but I won't. And what's more is that I don't want to. I conform to the pleas of his eager eyes, letting my wide forehead fall, colliding with his. A tangle of my own black curls seem to blend with his chestnut brown hair that flows in neat waves across his scalp.

I keep my eyes open, I struggle to focus them on John's face but eventually I manage to focus just enough to watch his eyes dance under his eyelids. His warm breath tickles over my lips, casting a charm over me. My knees buckle but then fall into weakness. I wrap my tingling arms around John, his arms snake around me at the very same moment; I let him hold me on my feet as my heart runs sprints, sending waves of something strange through me. It feels like nausea, dizzy and faint, but it feels delightful and I don't want it to cease. My lips twitch millimetres from his but I can't bring myself to make the first move. Some part of me wants him to take control of me, to command me and force me to do what he wants me to do. My lips hover near his, still but yearning for the soft brush of John's lips.

John pulls his head away from mine with an excited and warm look about his eyes. The youthfulness of his gaze reminds me of the boy that he kissed. What was his name? I'd rather forget but I remember his face and name painfully well. "Don't forget we're meeting Chris and James tonight."

The light flickers from his eyes and his face falls into a pained wince. "Do we have to?" he begs piteously. This I hadn't anticipated. John to dread meeting them tonight seeing as he chose out of his own free will to snog Chris.

"Of course! You said you were fine about it," I counteract. I take in his agonized expression again. "If it hurts you that much, why did you kiss him?" I pry, knowing that he won't be able to answer with confidence and already knowing exactly why.

"You wouldn't open up to me, I tried to help you but you wouldn't let me in," he groans, stepping away from me in a flash of anger. Although, the anger is aimed at me, I can tell he does not feel the anger towards me. Instead, he is coping with his own self-loathing by transforming it into anger which he projects into any conversation that ignites the flame.

"Revenge," I whisper just loud enough for him to hear me.

"No," he protests quickly but I can see the word sink in with the fall of his face. His face is now so sullen that I feel a pang of guilt having pushed the conversation so far but at the same time I feel relief, like now we both know what is happening in our minds now. "I'm sorry," John eventually repeats.

"You keep saying that," I point out neutrally.

"I know, I know but if there's anything I can do to make it up to you, I will do it."

I don't hesitate and repeat my proposition, "We're going to meet Chris and James tonight."

He nods slowly, accepting his fate and turning away from me. John disappears into his room without another word, leaving me to go about my own business.

A few hours later and I have showered and walked out of the bathroom shirtless for the first time. John re-emerges from his bedroom, after obviously avoiding me all night, to see me buttoning up my favourite shirt over my chest. I've always admired my own chest; so soft, pale and hairless although apparently hair on men's chests is attractive. John stands on the other side of the living room, watching me as I hook each button through its respective hole purposefully slowly.

He's dressed in loose jeans that sag at the knees in their age. His belt in a thick brown one with an ugly clutch, luckily he has managed to match the mock-leather of the belt with the leather of his shoes, his date shoes no less. A date. His shirt however, is the most displeasing item in his outfit. He wears his usual baggy white work shirt. I can't let him go out to a bar to meet the boy that he kissed with him looking so conservative. I have a pulsing desire to flaunt our brand new relationship by over sexualising our outfits even though intercourse has barely even crossed my mind.

"You can't go like that," I point out.

"Why?"

I simply sigh in response as stride across the room towards him where he stands in the doorway of our bedroom, gracefully grasping the collar of a bright red button up shirt without even changing my course.

I thrust it towards him and hold it steadily until he hesitantly takes it into his own hands. He gazes into the startling red of the cotton in his hands before meeting my gaze. I cock an eyebrow at him slyly, cluing him in on my intentions. His chunky hands fiddle with his shirt buttons until each one pops open. With a roll of his shoulders his characterless white shirt slips from his back onto the floor. I take my opportunity to explore every inch of his bare body in the light. His chest is not toned but it's not flabby and soft either; all of his years in the army have left his chest relatively flat. A handful of pale brown hairs scatter across his chest, each one barely visible. My hands crave to touch one of the delicate curls but all too soon John has pulled the shirt closed across his chest and begun to button it. I drag my eyes back to his face, still streaked with dread but, contrasting to a few hours ago, he looks slightly amused by the prospect of meeting Chris and his boyfriend shortly.

He looks to me for approval, "How do I look?"

I give him a quick scan. His jeans are still too baggy but he'd never fit into any pair of mine and none of his are particularly tight. The shirt, however, fits like a glove. Better than a glove actually. The bright red compliments his skin, washing out the pinkness in his face that make him come across as a bashful child when he gets embarrassed (not that I don't enjoy that look…) and it pulls tightly across his chest, but not too constrictively. Perfect. I give him a smirk of approval while I compile the words to describe him perfectly.

I sneak a light kiss to his forehead, feeling the heat of his blushing on my lips. I glance to the clock above his head. We're already ten minutes late.

We're about 500 strides from the pub when the perfect description of John manages to form on the tip of my tongue. "Like a tiny kitten playing with a ball of wool while butterflies flit around it," I gaze down at him, waiting for a reply but sensing his confusion as he tries to remember what provoked my vague sentence. "I couldn't find just one word to describe how you looked. Adorable wasn't intense enough."

John chuckles contentedly, "I didn't see you as a cat person."

I reorder the form of his clunky sentence before replying, "They're solitary and intelligent."

"And they love themselves more than anything else in the universe," he laughs.

"I don't see why it's so amusing," I reveal, taking slight offense in his laughter but with his constant joyous laughter as a soundtrack to our walking, it is impossible to remain irritated.

I slip my hand down his forearm, fingers lingering on the back of his hand, tracing the bones concealed by puffy flesh and lace my fingers with his.

All too soon we arrive in the doorway of the bar and all joy washes from my bones. My hand tenses in a way that contorts my bones leaving them aching but still I don't untangle them from John's.

As we step into the bar I nod at a group of people standing to the right of the door, pushing myself into a false social state. Across the dingy room I spot two spare seats right at the bar and hurriedly push my way through the crowd of people, dragging John by the hand behind me and sitting him down on the stool.

I summon the saggy bartender over to us, ordering John a heavy beer to begin with. As the bartender sidles away with an idle mind, I attempt to read his unguarded home life but I find my own mind to be rebelling against my natural instincts leaving me exceedingly distracted by my own personal fears.

I scan every person in the room, establishing their relationships with each other and their intentions for the night but none of it really sticks. Instead the information floats through my ears and eyes and is released with every exhalation. I suppose this is for the best, however, I'd be rifling through this insignificant information in a few days and deleting it from my mental hard drive.

As my gaze drifts from the group by the door to the now opening door itself, my eyes meet with a young couple. The sight of them sends a violent shudder through my spine that I struggle to conceal in my skin tight shirt.

John's hand gasps mine in agitation as he sinks back behind his drink.

"Chris! We were almost worried you weren't going to show," I chirp excitedly but there's no mistake that behind my mask of joy and sociability there is nothing but an apprehensive stabbing that twists in my gut suppressed within me.

"We're fashionably late," Chris laughs gleefully, genuinely happy to be here. "This is James," he announces, patting the young man at his side on his chest playfully.

James holds himself stiffly; straight backed, shoulders back, head held high. Yet he holds himself without concentration, like it's become a natural habit. There are only a few men who I've seen standing so naturally like this, John being the most notable, all of whom have served in the military. However, this young man is far too young to have served for more than two or three years at most, so chances are he's training for the army and has not yet seen the battle field. Of course, his alarming posture isn't all that screams army; his sandy hair is cut short meaning that he is of a very low rank.

"Hey," his deep rattling voice sounds.

John reciprocates the greetings shyly before I steer the conversation along, "Chris, John tells me you're studying to become a vet," I only know this because the washing he unloaded at the laundrette contained a name badge from a veterinary college.

"Uhh, yeah. I'm looking at becoming an equine vet actually," He says motioning for us to follow them to a table for four just across from the bar.

"Ahh, yes, horses are stunning creatures. My brother, Mycroft, had an obsession with them in his teens; that and cake decorating," I allow myself to chuckle at the memory and sit myself down across from James on the table.

"Your brother sounds like a real character," James laughs deeply.

"Oh no, he's quite boring really," I reply bluntly. When I glance at John for the first time since we arrived I give him a look that simply asks "why?" because I'm still baffled.

"What about you James, what do you do?" John asks foolishly because the answer is blinding. Even the way he talks is reserved and trained. But his intentions are obviously not focused on discovering James but more to guiding the conversations away from Chris.

"I'm training for the army," he grumbles happily.

"Oh really?" His eyebrows raise, crinkling his forehead, eyes open wide. "You two are Sherlock and I down to every detail," his voice rings. Chris blushes bashfully and James chuckles jovially and with that I realise why John kissed him.

The curls that cascade down Chris's forehead are almost identical to my own. His jagged cheek bones resemble mine but only vaguely; they are much puffier than my hollow cheeks. I could stand with him in public and strangers would mistake him to be my son.

Looking at him now, I see what John saw in him. What he was lacerates my gut, claws at my beating heart and rips it from my chest while it beats at double its usual pace. What he saw in Chris… What he saw was me. He saw me in Chris but he also saw something worse, something I am incapable of presenting to him. He saw an improved version of me.

He saw emotion.

He saw it streaked over Chris's face, unhidden and clear as a bell. It's deafeningly loud and it's blindingly vibrant. He speaks without even pulling on his vocal chords. I can almost read his mind like I can read variations of twenty six characters in an open book.

John saw this and he fell in love with it.

My hands ball into taut fists, crushing John's slack hand with my rigid digits. John wriggles his fingers against my knuckles, willing them to open, and I grant his wish in one spasmodic movement. His hand flies from him, knuckles bouncing against the wooden frame of his barstool as I slam mine down onto the table with the full brute force of my arm. The glasses on the table shake and Chris snatches his from its impending doom.

"Did you know that your boyfriend kissed mine?" I growl at James, motioning to Chris, "Or do you two have some sort of abnormal relationship?"

James jumps, startled by the accusation but he abruptly attains his trained posture again. He meets my eyes coolly "We have an open relationship, I trust him with all my heart," he vindicates. He pats Chris's hand gingerly.

"And I trust you," Chris replies, sounding sweeter than sugar and batting his eyelashes furiously at James with a horrid smile. My body slackens, hands sliding from the table and dangling limply at my side.

I try to comprehend how one could stand seeing the person they love have intimate relations with another. To my understanding John should be mine and I should be his and nobody else should be thrown into the mix. But then again I've never understood sex; I've never desired it like other people do and it hasn't ever appealed to me, even in my youth. But for John it must mean something and without an open relationship he may never experience it again.

Most people blunder about my feet expecting me to know everything, the majority of the time they are correct in assuming this but tonight I have learned something that hadn't ever occurred to me. And the epiphany of tonight has drawn me a picture of everything that I cannot give to John: a normal relationship, an open relationship or emotions. All I have for him is an endless spiral of nothingness. I want to give him my love and my own happiness but I can't, I don't know how.

Something tugs at my hand and I know it can only be John but there's no warmth there. All I can feel is the ice in my veins. My neck twists and my eyes roll mindlessly but don't focus on anything in my visual field.

"I better get him home," John's far off voice yells. He hoists me to my feet knowing nothing about what races recklessly through my head.

"Do you need help getting him home?" James asks, at least I think it is James's voice but my perception is becoming increasingly hazy as the seconds tick onwards.

"You've done enough," John defends, dragging my limp body to the exit.

People stare at us as we leave, making their judgments and conclusions but nobody could ever know the real cause of this.

I try the best I can to take some of my weight off of John's small body, my feet stumbling and falling over invisible obstacles, but with every blunder I put more pressure on John.

I want to cry, like I had the first time I met Chris, but this time I can't even seem to let my eyes water. I want to show John my pain and prove to him that I do have emotions but my body has shut itself down.

There's a deafening crack as John kicks the front door open, breaking the lock without a second thought.

Mrs Hudson wails down the hall but John calls to her, assuring her that it is just us as he hauls up the stairs. My feet trip over every step in defiance of my will. I vaguely notice Mrs Hudson open the door for us and in a few more uncoordinated steps I am shoved down onto the cushions of the couch. John kneels to my side, checking my eyes for consciousness now that he has allowed me to cease movement.

I try to call his name but my mouth barely even flops open, a disappointing result of the intense concentration I am devoting to attempting to say his name.

"What happened?"

Mrs Hudson frantically repeats until John answers her through gritted teeth. "I'm very sorry Mrs Hudson but I'll have to talk to you in the morning."

"Sherlock," John whimpers, face close to mine.

"John," I finally manage but it leaves my lips as little more than a mewl. He fades in an out of my vision as my will to continue existing in this reality wanes.

"Sherlock what's bothering you? I don't care for Chris or James," he excuses himself. But in truth he has no reason to excuse himself for what he has done, he followed his heart like you should in love; I should be the one apologising for being incapable as a boyfriend or even a friend.

I push myself into a sitting position. My eyes dart about John's features trying to make sense of what they see and bring. The haze lifts suddenly as the solution comes to mind. I now watch John keenly. "John, do you want an open relationship?"

His eyes widen but he doesn't have an immediate reaction. Instead he pauses with an unsteadiness that could only mean that the idea of having an open relationship has come to mind before. Perhaps he's offended by the idea, but his face says otherwise.

"Oh," I breathe despairingly. It's not that I don't trust John, I do… I have to tell him. I drop my eyes to where my hands have balled into tense fists, each one full to the brim with stress and heartbreak. But I have to say it or I'll never recover from this.

In my brief moment of hesitation I hear the voice of young and haughty Mycroft, "You cannot go on repressing your emotions and expect to be able to live your life, Sherlock. This suppression will be the death of you." I lost an already dying relationship with my brother that day, I can't lose John in the same way.

"John, I know it's selfish," I begin to confess, eyes glued to my fists, "but I don't want to share you with anyone else, even if you don't have sex with them and it doesn't mean anythi-"

"I don't want anyone else. Ever," He interrupts abruptly.

It takes every ounce of courage in my body just to drag my eyes upwards to see John's face again. Even so, my lips jerk uncontrollably as fitful tears attempt to escape from their impenetrable ducts. I clench my teeth on my convulsing lip to stop it for just long enough to confess, "John, I've never had… Sex before." It was never a huge deal for me; it never seemed to make a difference to my life until now.

"I don't care," John attempts to console me.

"But Chris and James do it all the time."

"Damn them," John shrieks, bounding to his feet.

"You don't understand," I denote as I cower back into the cushions of the couch as best I can. "I'm not sure if I ever want to have sex. It's never appealed to me."

"That's okay. I don't care."

"But without an open relationsh-"

"I don't care if we never have sex," he interjects again. He twirls to sit by my side but he doesn't wrap his arms around me and I can't bring myself to do it so I'm forced to let him just press his face close to mine but not touch. "I will never cheat on you; I can't even look at another person in that way because I only have eyes for you."

I can't take it anymore; I take charge of the out of control situation and clumsily press my lips to his.

As cliché as it sounds; he is mine and I am his. And nobody else's.


	13. Vital Resources

"Do you honestly think all that goes through my head is sex?"

I glance up from the altogether unprofitable page of my novel in answer to his inquiry.

"For goodness sake," he says with a slight snarl, launching himself from his chair and seizes it from my grip. "Seriously what do these relationship books even tell you?"

How could he possibly know that they are relationship books? The mock cover should be enough to fool him but as he slips the book from its jacket I realise that I have under estimated John's intelligence yet again. I watch in sheer apprehension of John's reaction. He shuts the novel, observing the front cover and the graphics that leap out at you from the cover, and then he flips it over to read the blurb. The book is radically different from the rest that I've read, focusing on the liar and cheaters and how to cope with it and forgive. I'm ashamed to have needed it in the first place.

"I'm banning you from reading these books," John announces. He flings the book across the room towards a dustbin by my side. It hits the side of the couch in a fizzle of pages and clatters to the floor.

"But I don't know how to act in a relationship," I defend, leaning down to scoop the book from the floor before John has the chance to aim for the bin again.

He takes the book from my hands again but this time he doesn't snatch, this time he slides the novel from my fingers with care. "And you're not going to learn from these books. Especially not this one that is written by women who have been screwed over by men in the past."

He places it behind him, out of my sight. I open my mouth to argue but he slides onto my lap, pinning me down. His hot hand slides up my arm and across my shoulder blade to linger at the back of my neck, just below my hair. Here his frisky fingers twist through an untidy ringlet.

"You've just got to go with the flow," he instructs.

I only half understand the phrase he's used but I answer anyway, "But I've always learnt from reading."

"It's different for everybody, you know. It may go smoothly or it might be rocky but we'll make it through. I know we will."

"You can't predict the future, John."

"I know I'll always love you."

"But you only fell for me recently; I'd say 2 months, crushes last from 6 to 8 months," I recall with care.

"How could you possibly know that?" he moans, sliding from my lap onto his feet.

"I read it," I reply emotionlessly.

"No, I mean the other part."

"I don't," I reveal deceptively. I do know, in fact I'm ninety per cent sure I'm correct; but I don't know, I simply observed. "But that's when you started acting differently towards me. You started avoiding me more and conversing with me in a friendly manner less but scolding me more often. I read that," I note pointedly.

"I'm guessing you got that all from a book," he growls.

"I thought you'd be impressed."

"I'm not," he replies bluntly.

"Why?" I lean towards him to empower myself whilst I interrogate him further.

"Why" is by far the hardest question to answer in any circumstance, particularly when the wording of the solution should be assembled with the utmost care. It is a little trick every child knows but they end up using it in the most preposterous ways. By the age of seven I knew exactly how to lead my suspect into the question without them realising it, bewildering them and leaving their brains at a standstill while they undertake the most simply complex question known to mankind.

"Because you can't learn love from a book, you have to feel it and let it take you away with it. If you learn it from a book, it's not genuine," John finally explains.

He takes the book, which has somehow wound up balanced on the palms on my hands again, from me. This time I do not protest, this time compassion and guilt floods into my soul from the brush of John's fingertips as they remove the book from my hands.

"I'm sorry we had to leave," I sigh.

"I know you're not, you hardly ever are because you think you're right," he laughs affectionately, "And you were right. I didn't want to be there but I thought it was me who'd crack it first." His fingers drum a mindless beat on the hard cover of my book. "How many books have you read about this?"

"A few," I lie, trying to deceive John one last time, but I falter. I lie but I can't draw my eyes to his and my voice crackles slightly as the words leave my throat. John knows the signs of lying and the signals I am emitting are particularly tell-tale.

"You're lying," he observes.

I didn't want to have to tell John everything that has ever crossed my mind. I never planned to tell him any of what he found out tonight let alone what I am not plucking up the courage to say. This is one battle I cannot shy away from because if I do, my dreams might come true. Perhaps not in the literal sense, but I may lose John forever if I continue to lie to him.

"I didn't know I was gay, I didn't know I was anything, so I was trying to figure it out and figure out how to tell you," I confess.

"How long?" He inquires, softly placing his hand over mine.

I feel his heavy pulse through his index finger and it's enough to spur me along into a rant of concealed secrets that not one person on this earth knows apart from me. "The first time we met in the lab I felt a tickle in my chest but I thought it was simply the anxiety of sharing a house with a complete stranger." Oh crumpets, I can't believe I'm telling John this. I'm like a school girl who writes in her diary about her crush. "Although I did know so much about your history already, I didn't know you at all. Two weeks went by and the feeling stayed. So I looked it up on websites and books. I found books to be the most useful of all the options I had at hand," I breathe heavily, having spoken rapidly to get the speech out of the way.

John looks to me, eager for more.

"All through high school I put up with complete idiots," at this John chokes back a laugh. I feel my eyebrows squeeze together but I go on anyway. "I was never attracted to anyone until college where I met some slightly less idiotic people but nobody appealed to me. In my last year college I got drunk at a party and kissed many people of both genders but I found it tedious and boring to the point where it hadn't appealed to me again. I considered myself as asexual until I met you. You are the only one who caused the butterflies and the appeal for something more than friendship."

"You may still be an asexual, though. The main characteristic is that they can have relationships but have no interest in sex."

I flick my eyebrow, cluing John in on another secret.

"About ten minutes ago you told me that you'd never been interested in sex."

"It still stands the same for now. Maybe one day I will, who knows. One day I might wake up with the desire." After all, I had only discovered that I was gay just over a year ago.

John rolls his tongue over his lips in thought which unexpectedly sends a hot rush of blood to my head. I jerk my neck away from John so that he can't see my embarrassment but the muscles in my neck crick sending jolts of pain though them.

I try to concentrate on the pain and I rub at it furiously but somehow I can't remove John from the scene like I usually would in circumstances where others become nuisances. I try to ignore his very existence as he tosses the book onto the couch again, stands and skirts around the couch to stand behind me.

He tenderly removed my hand from my tense neck and plants a light kiss on the very spot where the muscles had jolted.

"What are you embarrassed about?" He breathes into my ear.

I shudder at the sweep of his lips on my earlobe.

"Sex?" He breathes again.

I clench and release my jaw; willing him away, wanting him to stop.

"It's okay, you know, not wanting it. You're normal."

"But I can't give you happiness," I finally mumble unsurely, turning to face him. Now he can see me, he can see the emotions which I am designating to majority of my energy into expressing and not supressing.

"You make me happy. All I need is you to be here, alive and well, and I am content and happy. I love you for you, not for sex." His lips graze mine.

The haze of confusion finally lifts and I see John at last. His shroud of lies made by the both of us finally falls away and for the first time since my childhood, I can trust somebody with my whole heart and, metaphor or not, I trust John with my mind, heart and soul.

"Come on, it's late, we both need sleep."


	14. Do Me a Favour?

I stand with John, as always, at the top of an unknown building. John stands dangerously close to the edge while I cower behind him, metres from the edge. He steps forward again and balances precariously on the edge, gazing out upon the liveliness of London far below.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" He calls, waving at me to come closer.

I cautiously step up to his side, "What is?"

"Life! Living," he laughs at the world before him. No, not at it. He laughs with the world. "Watch them, all the bustling people. They have all have individual lives and paths set out for them but they're all connected; all pieces in the background of each other's lives. Can you feel it? All the connections? All the relationships? All the emotions?"

"I suppose it is." I stand and look down at what he sees. A new light shines on everything. Every single little thing seems so much more glorious now; the birds, the clouds, the cars rushing far beneath our feet, the people going about their daily lives. "Beautiful," I repeat. "John, can we stand away from the edge now?"

I hold his hand and he allows me to lead him away from the very edge of the roof. I kiss him on the forehead. "Do you see it?" he asks gazing at my with the same fascination he gave to the lives below.

"I only see you," I confess nervously.

He turns back to look out over London once again.

"John," I shuffle forward to stand next to him. I know it's not the real John, the character isn't right, but rehearsing the words to a figment of my imagination gives me the chance to perfect it. "John," I begin again. "The first time I saw you, I knew you'd be the one to hold my trust…" I trail off, shaking my head. "I can't lie, not even to my imagination. It took me weeks to realise it and by that time, I already trusted you with my entirety. I don't expect you to understand, but it's hard to trust anybody at all when you're a genius…" I shouldn't say that to the real John, I make a mental note. "But John, I want you to know… NEED you to know that I love you and I never want to lose you. John, can you do me a favour and marry me?"

It'd take a miracle for him to say yes.

Give me a murder and I'll solve it but give me emotions and I need my John.

I wake to a single buzz of my phone on the bedside table. Ever so carefully I untangle my right arm from John's grip and take the phone into my fingers.

"We need to talk. My office. Two hours. MH"

I toss my phone aside and reposition my arm around John's fleshy body and pull myself close, pressing myself into his warmth.

I spend the next hour dozing on and off, hearing frequent buzzes from my mobile on the table.

I check the handful of useful texts from Mycroft again.

"Your case, The Hungry Homicide, has been upgraded to an international affair. We need to talk. MH"

"You cannot continue to ignore me, Sherlock. This case is out of your depths. MH"

I snuggle into John once again and allow myself to drift out of consciousness again. But it's not too long before I hear John stir from his slumber.

"We should probably get ready to meet Mycroft."

"Mycroft?" he stutters, his waking mouth not coordinating with his words.

"Oh, didn't I tell you?" I ask, automatically but unintentionally defending my reliability. "He wants to be informed about the case seeing as it has become an international affair. I don't plan to tell him much but knowing Mycroft, he probably already knows half of it."

John blinks his eyes with a sort of irritation lingering behind them. "When are we meeting him? And where?"

"The office in an hour."

He exhales deeply and removes himself from our tangle of limbs and slides to the edge of the bed. He stands and turns on his heal to face my before he notices.

"I'm naked," he exclaims, hands shooting downwards to conceal his crotch area from my sights, inadvertently drawing my eyes towards it.

"Quite," I smirk evilly.

He momentarily had forgotten the events of the night. The suddenness of it all. The tearing of clothes. The rush. The clash of skin to skin. The heat. The love.

I pull myself from the sheets exhibiting my lightly freckled, colourless pelt. I drag my uncooperative feet across the room to hold John in my arms.

I step away from him after planting a gentle kiss on his lips. His eyes explore my pale body in the morning light. "Last night was quite possibly the best sex I've ever had," he declares.

"It's the only sex I've ever had," I confess, but he already knew this general knowledge. I smile genuinely.

I cross the room, remembering the night's events while fishing a shirt and pants out of the drawers. He suggested we go to bed and while we lay there, separated by my false asexuality I finally recognised the desire I had for John. I blush at the words that were exchanged, at the cravings, at the bliss.

"Make me a coffee while I'm in the shower," I command quickly turning away from John so that he cannot misinterpret the redness of my cheeks.

I re-enter the kitchen minutes later to find John preparing breakfast for the both of us still stark naked.

"Aren't you going to get dressed?" I inquire.

"I need a shower, there's no point in getting dressed multiple times," he chuckles deeply, taking a sip of his steaming coffee.

It takes us just under 29 minutes to ready ourselves and wave down a cab at the curb. We spend the cab ride with our fingers knitted together tightly but the cabbie takes an unbearably long time to reach our destination, just enough time for me to overthink my decision to converse with my brother.

As we approach the stunning wooden doors to Mycroft's building, I take John aside for a moment, "Are you still okay with not telling anybody about us at the moment?"

"Of course," he confirms, relieving some of the tenseness in my body.

I don't explain my worries to John but I dearly hope that he does not mistake my anxiousness for something that it is not. I am not worried that Mycroft will lose his faith in me now that I have succumbed to love. His opinion does not affect me in the slightest. No. I am terrified to the core of Mycroft using John against me.

I raise my hand and ring the bell. I can almost hear its chimes ring through the silent hallways. A small crippled man answers the heavy doors and beckons us inside.

John and I take our respective places on an antique couch in a silent room. We sit so close together but at the same time, we sit galaxies apart.

Mycroft finally appears from the depths of his so called 'work' to collect us from the waiting room.

"Late as usual," I scold out of turn.

My brother's face twists horridly with pure annoyance at having to consult me about my work.

After a few tense silent minutes sitting in Mycroft office he finally speaks. "I understand your current case has become a matter of international importance?"

I simply look on, waiting for his next unnecessary question.

"Must you constantly endanger lives of others while mull over a petty childhood feud?"

"This is my case, Mycroft." I point out bluntly.

"In London, where you are based, it is most certainly your case but when these sorts of murders are occurring all over the world, it becomes my job."

I grimace.

"Not only is this important for the survival of innocent women and girls but passing me the information will ensure that the information does not fall into the wrong hands and get publicised by the media. As you would expect this would cause wide spread grief and distress. I wouldn't expect you to understand emotions, of course."

Suddenly I am on my feet, flattened palms slamming on Mycroft's desk, flipping a pile of letters off the edge and onto the floor. "Says the Iceman," I bellow in my own defence.

"Come now, come now." Mycroft waves his hand at me, face gleaming with the anger in its purest form in reaction to my unexpected use of words. "You have no right to use that against me, virgin," he spits through gritted teeth.

I open my mouth with words gathering on my lips, ready to be flicked off my tongue when John's fingers hook around my wrist. Like a boa constrictor wringing the life out of its defenceless prey, John squeezes the imbecilic notion from me and pulls me back into my place; which, in this case, is the antique chair behind me.

I cross my arms firmly across my chest, trapping my hands in my armpits. I look to John who simply returns a stern glance to which I reply with a pout. But it is for the best, I suppose, neither of us a particularly keen on shouting about our adamants in our relationship from the rooftops. I squirm at the thought of being on a rooftop with John.

"For such geniuses, you two sure so act like children," John growls. He looks to Mycroft but even an idiot could tell that the gesture was aimed at the both of us. "Sherlock, tell him what he needs to know and get it over with because I want to leave."

I whimper quietly enough for John to hear. It's a whimper that says nothing but "Do I have to?" But there's no point in asking. The faster I give up my information, the sooner we leave. "Smugglers," I announce, I'm still anxious but the signs of it leave my voice as I speak. "A world-spread cult of smugglers is using women, more specifically their uteruses, as a method of transport of stolen goods. We interviewed the only known survivor about the objects, she did not see it herself but reliably told us that the objects were solid and that it was heavy and large enough to cause stretchmarks. The women are attacked and the stolen object is hidden inside of them then they are forced to travel with a small group of masked cultists over an extended period of time to a collection point where the object is taken from her and she is then killed. The cult moves the body and disguises the cause of death to be one that relates to the area in which she is found."

"I assume the deaths are planned?"

"From the moment they are chosen to carry an object," I summarise in the most basic way.

"And the objects are stolen?"

"I have not seen any of the objects but I have tracked down several recorded accounts of thievery in major museums around the world." Which is a lie, because there was more than the occasional high-class museum heist. There were a handful of thievery cases in privately owned collection too.

"Very good," he pauses, pondering the information for a second. "That is all the information I require for now."

All of this for that measly amount of information? Mycroft knows much more than he is letting on. Despite this inkling, I leave with haste, John hot on my heels.

On the icy pavement, I allow myself a breath of the chilled air and fill my lungs with the bitterly cold atmosphere. I exhale slowly, letting my doubts and anger wash away from the surface, back into the depths on my consciousness.

"You did well," John consoles ineffectively.

Although my feet step away from him, my mind does not. I stand facing the road with my knees buckled beneath me and my shoulders locked so stiffly that no matter how determined I am raise my hand and summon a cab, I am incapable of doing so.

"John, a word?" the voice of a horrid monster calls.

I feel John's presence at my side with certain warmth that only he holds. It's the warmth that thaws my frozen limbs just enough to turn my head to face him.

"I'll meet you back at home, okay?" He confers before leaving me alone on the side of the road.

I wave for a passing cab while Mycroft still stands and immediately regret it. The cab pulls to the curb, enticing me into the padded seats and toasty air. I climb into the environment but with the relaxation that comes from sinking into the seat comes a pang of guilt.

"Where are we off to?" The young cabbie inquires.

"221b Baker street," I announce, "but would you mind if we hold the cab for a minute, my friend is just finishing up some important business and will return shortly?"

The cabbie nods and I sink into the seat again.

John, my John, is in there talking to my brother. I ponder the subjects. There is no doubt that my action will come into question and I can only hope that John will choose to support me. But with this hope comes the realisation that out of the two people in that office, one of the people in there is my family and one is just another man. Mycroft may be blood but he is not family.

"Sir, I do have a job to do," the cabbie prompts.

"You are currently doing it by waiting patiently for my colleague," I scold.

"This is stupid " he begins to protest under his breath, readying his hand on the gearshift but I cut him short.

"Now, Glenn," I read from the sticker on the dashboard, "By the looks of it you are no more than a few years off thirty, am I right? And yet you have dedicated your life to driving people around the city in a cab," I begin letting off steam. "Now, I suspect that this was not your first choice, was it? You wanted, still want, to be a something more. I can tell by your frankly blinding intent to get fired from this job. But you can't do what you want to do, can you? And I know it's either because your family doesn't accept you but more likely because you KNOW that you do not have the intelligence to get into the path you need. I, however, am a certified genius and consulting detective, so don't you dare accuse my actions as being stupid."

"I didn't mean… never mind. Look, we have to leave now or I'm gonna have to ask you to get out."

"Sorry," I lie. "Just wait a few more moments-" I'm immediately distracted by John's figure now stepping through the elaborate wooden doors.

"You waited?" He says sliding into the centre seat.

"Obviously," I pause considering whether I want to know the answer to the question I have at the tip of my tongue or not, "And what did Mycroft have to say for himself?"

I watch the cogs click over behind his eyes as he hesitates slightly. "Mycroft was apologising for his atrocious behaviour."

I flick a heavy eyebrow in reply, knowing that John is attempting to lie to me. John has never been particularly good at lying; at times, it gleams on his face like the harsh sunlight. I guess it comes with being a good person at heart.

The cab rumbles as it rolls into the centre of the road.

"Fine," he eventually confess, "He wanted to apologise for your behaviour but I told him off and made him apologise for his behaviour. He started it."

I smile down into his face appreciatively. As usual I slide my hand along m thigh to wriggle my fingers between John's digits but John makes an unexpected move. He lets his body give in to his exhaustion and collapses with his head on my shoulder and, much like a cat would, rubs his head into the fabric of my jacket.

The flustered cabbie loses his way around the peak hour London streets, taking wrong turns at every opportunity even with the guidance of his navigation device. I feel partly responsible for bewildering him for my own enjoyment. Despite this, I quite enjoy the road trip cuddled up to John.

The jangle of keys fills the cab as we pull to the curb. John climbs out into the cold of the day with his fingers flicking through the keys. The door creaks open to reveal a warm house and the smell of Mrs Hudson's morning tea wafts from down the narrow hall. I bound up the stairs after John, welcoming the chance to clear my head of unnecessary thoughts and focus back on the case at hand.

But, alas, my much anticipated time is cut short for before John was entered our apartment is obnoxious ringtone blares from his pocket.

"Greg," he sighs impatiently, "What now?"

John has the volume of his phone turned up so loud that I can almost make out the jumble of frantic words coming from the speaker but John relays the most important information aloud.

"Another woman," he pauses," possibly 23 to 25 years of age… in a dumpster off Hayes Place."

"No need for a cab then," I murmur happily to myself. I move from the doorway into the lounge room, collecting a few items for the day. Another murder but this time so stereotypically placed in a dumpster. I rushed effort no doubt. A mistake at last.

"See you there." I feel John's scolding eyes on my instantly, "Stop being so happy."

Despite sensing his frustration, I cannot contain my heightened spirits.

"Sherlock, I'm being serious," he snaps, forcing me to turn my full attention to him. "These are murders, innocent women and girls are dead all over the world, this is not a happy case."

My mood wanes again, "But mystery, John," I exclaim. "Don't you feel it? Doesn't it intrigue you?" I attempt to highlight me passion for mystery but through the encouragement comes a heartbreakingly disheartened tone.

"Yes but it doesn't make me happy," He answers bluntly, turning away from me.

I remember once before, during the very first case we'd solved together, I told John that 'I am married to my work,' meaning that it is not just a job, it's my life. And if John doesn't enjoy this aspect of my life then I don't know what to think of his affections towards me. I know I'm wrong about my speculation, but it's worth asking. "I thought you liked solving crimes with me?"

John sighs, perturbed. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, concocting a jumble of words that will sufficiently reply to my inquiry. He purses his lips tightly and sighs heavily. "Let's just get to the scene, okay?"

Without uttering a word on the topic, I know what his reply is so I turn and lead us into the streets of London.

My dress shoes click uncomfortably on the concrete pathways and John plods dejectedly at my side as we make our way to the crime scene. Even streets away I can tell that the scene has raised commotion as traffic is banked up on streets that would be empty at this time of day and small groups of people seem to all be sidling towards the same general location.

I glimpse at John every so often, knowing that at one point or other his psychosomatic leg injury will begin to pain him again. By the time we are but one street away his limp has returned just as bad as ever but I refrain from assisting him.

Hayes Place has been taped off by Lestrade from one end to another, and although there are cars guarding each end, there is quite a large congregation of civilians peering around, trying to find out what the commotion is about.

John and I duck under the tape.

"Hello," John puffs to Lestrade.

An almost nonsensical phrase of words follow his greeting, "That limp still got you?"

"It may be psychosomatic but it sure as hell hurts," John laughs weakly.

I clear my throat, drawing their attention back to me. "The body," I urge.

"Ah yes!" Lestrade leads us halfway down the street and turns our attention to a small alcove of an alleyway. He motions to the open waste bin. She was reported to be missing from about half an hour west of here where she was house sitting for a friend. The friend returned but found no house sitter and had a house in ruin."

"Where is the friend now?" I hurry.

"We notified her and she was to meet us at the office at 12."

"Finally somebody is learning!" I exclaim with genuine delight.

Lestrade holds up yet another barrier of police tape and guides us through. I glimpse into the dumpster before flinging myself over the edge and landing with a metallic thud on the base.

"This was empty when she was found, I hope," I look up to see Lestrade nod and to see John deducing what I have already seen with a frown.

The woman is in her late forties, almost double the age that Lestrade had fed to us over the phone. Her face looks young, due to the Botox that swells it into an unnatural state, but her hands and neck are that of an older woman.

"She's only been dumped quite recently, overnight I should guess. She was found by a senior women early this morning when she brought down a bag of rubbish and saw her."

He hands John a piece of paper which he scans through vaguely before asking, "Nobody heard her being thrown in here?"

"Good question, John," I mentally praise him.

"We haven't had time to interview everybody, I'll get some men on it now-"

Police officers are my last choice for questioning of witnesses and the Scotland Yard officers lie below the list. "John can do it," I burst. "He's the only one I trust for this task," I confess truthfully, "Send him up with an officer to make him look official."

I kneel down to examine the woman. It doesn't take me long to work out that she died as a result of a fall from a significant height but judging by the lack of reports about the body, it's unlikely that she had fallen from the building into the dumpster. However, many people do overhear these situations but leave it up to other people to handle them.

My examination is interrupted by the sound of John and Lestrade's voices. I peek over the side of the container to find the two men standing together assuming that they are out of earshot.

"What have you done to him?" Lestrade asks.

"What do you mean?"

"Five days ago he would have never let anyone even you do a job like this and that's saying something because he loves you."

I gasp but keep low and out of sight and wait for John's reply.

"What?" John blurts.

"I meant loves you because you're the only one who doesn't tell him to piss off every time he speaks," he laughs awkwardly.

"Oh… Go on…" John encourages hesitantly.

"All I'm saying is that you must have done something incredibly agreeable with Sherlock because he trusts you with questioning people and asking them the right questions. I've worked with Sherlock for years and he's never asked me to do anything but get him coffees."

John blushes scarlet and mumbles something under his breath. The conversation is over and I let myself sink back down to look at the woman.

Unlike the other women that have minimal external wounds, this woman has been beaten, stabbed and strangled. You would mistake it for just a regular murder if it weren't for the wound on her stomach that has been stitched with twine.

I haul myself out of the disposal bin and survey the windows above it. There's a window in the building three levels up, the only window high enough to be the cause of death by falling and the only one exactly in line with the dumpster.

I skirt around and duck back underneath the police tape. "Lestrade," I call as he turns away from John and a young officer.

John leaves for the building that I had just surveyed from the outside. Silently I hope that he tucked his handgun underneath his belt before we left home.

"Lestrade," I call again, this time he turns and makes his way over to me.

"Sherlock?"

"I need you to make sure that body gets to the morgue before I have finished questioning the woman's friend. I want you to get Molly to determine the exact time of death and cause of death of the woman," I put emphasis on the word 'exact' hoping that he will do the same for Molly. "I want Molly to call me when she's finished and I need clearance to see the survivor, Laura."

"Got it," he announces.

"Do you?" I accuse, "Write it down."

He does so without hesitation and shows me the list which I skim over half-heartedly before I leave without another word.

I stride down Hayes Place to meet a now rather large crowd of people that is growing with people searching for gossip in their lunch hour. I push through the stubborn crowd who all pounce at me for what they call information and what I call gossip. I walk all the way back to 221b Baker Street knowing that there is no chance that I'll be able to wave down a cab anywhere near this area. It's not often that a body is found in the middle of the morning.

Nervous eyes follow me when I enter the Scotland Yard building at 12 o'clock on the dot. I head straight up to the interview room across the hall from Lestrade's office to find that the woman's friend has already arrived.

She sits alone in the stark room with dreary eyes clutching at her phone desperately.

"Miss," I announce my presence.

She jumps, dropping her phone onto the table.

"I am Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes. And you are?"

She shakes her head.

"Your name is not important," I ponder, "But you are a witness to crime-"

"I'm not," she murmurs.

"You may not have seen your friend get murdered but you could hold some vital information into finding the murderers who did this. Now, tell me what you know," I command, falling back so that I now lean against the back wall calmly.

"I-I was on holiday, Jessica was house sitting for me with another friend-"

"Another friend?"

"Her soon to be boyfriend, or at least I hoped."

"And have you seen him since?"

"I spoke to him on the phone a couple of times… what? Do you think he has something to do with this?"

"I can't be sure yet, but I need you to write down his details so that we can follow up on this." I slide her a notepad from my pocket along with a pen, "You must also understand that you cannot have contact with him until we have questioned him, just a precaution in case they decide to run."

She nods and scrawls a name and phone number down. "Daniel Hodges," she reads to me as I take the notebook from her hands.

"Did your friend ever mention becoming part of a cult or society, something she might have been a bit secretive about?"

"She talked about this charity she was enthusiastic about all the time. She was super hyped about it because they approached her. She said the name was in Latin, something about helping children… It's been her craze for a few weeks. But nothing that sounded dangerous and she wasn't secretive about anything."

"Stupid girl," I mutter beneath my breath.

"What?"

"Nothing," I tuck the notepad into my pocket. "Thank you. That is all I will need from you at the moment."

I leave her alone again, whipping my phone from my pocket. I punch in "Daniel Hodges" and his number and send it off to Lestrade with the request that he find everything out about this man while I am with Laura.


	15. The Work of a Amateur

While I'm in the cab to the hospital I receive a phone call from Molly. I force the cab to pull over so that I can take the phone call on the street rather than in the cab.

"Ah Molly, please tell me you have some good news!"

"Well, it's not great…" she hesitates. "The woman has been dead for about 8 hours, making the time of death the early morning but some of these bruises could be 24 hours old."

"Somebody had awful trouble murdering her…" I think aloud.

"Or she was tortured."

"No, the killer was clumsy. Look at the wounds. Some are scratches from nails as she struggled away from the killer and he lost his grip. The bruises are punches but not all are circular, which would denote an unmoving canvas, no she was not tied up. Look at the cuts, Molly. Do they look like torture marks to you? Torture is careful and slow, those were rushed as clumsy."

"How can you remember all of this?"

I sigh.

"Her cause of death was a combination of blood loss and a fall, possibly down stairs. Her neck is broken."

That confirms that she had in fact been dumped where she was found, not thrown.

"What about her arm?"

"Well, at first I thought it was broken but I had a bit of a prod and it turns out it was dislocated."

"She struggled away…" I mumble to myself, "Go on…"

"They brought me some blood samples from the dumpster too, it's hers but it didn't come from her corpse. It's about a week old judging by the colour. But it doesn't make sense, does it? She died only a few hours ago."

"Thank you Molly," I dismiss.

I swing myself from the cab, ignoring the cabbie's weak farewell, and through the hospital doors. I plan m speech as I make my way through the pungent hallways, taking the stairs to avoid the inevitable elevator babble.

I reach Laura's room, guarded by one of Mycroft's men, I recognise his face, I nod to him and he holds the door open without a word. I find Laura asleep in her cot, wilting flowers from family and friends surrounding her. Silently I take a seat by her bed and quietly call her name.

He eyes flick beneath their heavy lids. "They let me know you were coming," her eyes flutter open for only a millisecond before she drops them again. "I'm just so tired," he hands fumble for the bed controls and slowly she raises herself.

"Laura, I know that you are feeling weak but right now you hold the most power," I encourage.

Her eyes scan my warily, "Has there been another one?"

"Yes," I confirm, "I need you to tell me EVERYTHING you know."

She winces slightly at my emphasis but she squeezes her eyes and stretches tenderly. "I don't know much but about them, but they came to my door and said they had come to talk about a new charity group that dedicated their time to helping children. It's like they knew me because they started talking about the education of the children and they were arguing all of the points that I had made in a rant on my blog the previous week. I should have seen something coming."

"They researched you?"

"They must have. I looked back at my blog entry yesterday and all they did was repeat what I said."

"What happened after that?"

"They came back the next day and told me that their mission started with me and that they would love to have me come into their personal information centre so I went. Willingly. Oh God I'm so stupid," She wails. She rakes her hand through her hair pulling now thinned strands from her head.

"You weren't to know," I try to sound empathetic, just like John would do, but it ends up sounding exaggerated and sarcastic. "Can you go on?"

She nods, "I got to the door and the people inside were wearing masks and they trapped me, cut me open and put something in. I passed out." She begins to blubber again, "I'm sorry," she sobs, reaching for a tissue. "I woke up and we were driving in a van or a truck, I couldn't tell. They kept me alive and I didn't know why at first but they told me that I was helping the children by delivering a very expensive gift. I was in so much pain. I was in and out of consciousness and I can't remember much. "

"Thank you, Laura. You've provided me with lots to work with."

I raise my exhausted body from the chair. With my hand on the door handle and about the press down I hear Laura call me back.

"Wait," she bursts. "I remember something else. Sit," she orders and I obey. "It was just before they removed the 'gift' and I was asking questions to stall them, I'm not entirely sure if I heard it correctly or if it's true, but they said that the 'gift' was going to be taken to the docks in London but when I asked about me they didn't say anything."

"Interesting," I mumble. "Thank you, Laura."

I leave with haste. Words flash through my mind, forming sentences and phases that don't quite make sense yet.

The cult chooses the woman and lures them in, no doubt with something acquired to their taste although it is impossible to tell for sure and fairly irrelevant anyway. They send out a team of people to kidnap the woman, insert the item and transport them to a central point before removing the object and murdering the woman so that she cannot disclose any clues. But they missed one. They missed one and this one was the woman who'd been told everything.

I flip me phone in my hand, punching in John's number with excited fingers. The tone rings in my ear ten times before ceasing, John's voicemail now asking to leave my number and message. I dial once more and the phone rings out again. It's odd not having John answering my calls, but even stranger to have them ring out.

Nevertheless, I summon a cab and make my way back to the flat.

I bound up the stairs to our door, eager to tell John the brilliant news but instead I find our front door slightly ajar. John has never been the sort to leave a door open, not with his military training; an open door could mean life or death in the warzone. And Mrs Hudson had an afternoon tea gathering at Mrs Turner's house across the street making it highly unlikely that she had been up to our flat.

I proceed with extreme caution with my mind racing and my body ready to protect myself at any given moment.

I use my fingertips to push on the wood of the door; it swings open ever so slowly without the slightest of creaks. Inside I find nothing out of the ordinary, just our usual untidiness, still I tread silently into the room. My laptop sits open and still running on the coffee table, either John remembers my password or somebody else has been in the room. I deduce the latter.

I slid warily into the kitchen where I collect the fingerprint dusting supplies that I pickpocketed from Lestrade when I first started working with him. It's come in handy on countless occasions.

I take extra caution when I expose myself in the open space of the living room. I skirt around the couch, not daring to touch it for fear of it making a sound, and crouch by my computer. I dust the mouse pad and keys before I notice a suspicious looking USB. I don't recognise the device; all of mine are labelled and so are the majority of John's are too. I dust it as well for good measure before retrieving a cordless mouse from the drawer in the coffee table.

I search through the files on my computer, attempting to open everything to do with The Stolen Births but only receive errors. I click into the USB files and find nothing but software for attaining the password into my computer. It seems as though they have finished their intended task but considering that their USB is still plugged into my computer, there's still a chance that they are in the flat.

I twirl on the spot until I am standing upright. I try not to think of all the lost data as almost recklessly stride through the flat towards every closed door. I begin with the bathroom, finding it empty, then my own room which is also empty. Anger swells with the notion that a stranger from the cult could be squatting in the room that John and I share. Our room. I slam the door open, searching the room thoroughly but finding nothing but an open second story window.

I look down through the window. The culprit could have easily climbed out of the window and landed safely on the street, largely noticed by passers-by but uninjured. I close the window again and slip my own computer into a sample bag, also pick pocketed from Lestrade, and leave the flat.

On the curb I ask countless passers-by if they saw a man fall from the second story window of my flat. Some confess that they did see something. One young woman reveals that she called the police after witnessing it which is both annoying and handy.

I use my spare time to ring John again and again and again. Every single time I get the same result: the phone rings ten times and ceases. I leave two messages, getting desperate, before Lestrade and his men eventually arrive at the scene.

"Aren't you supposed to be at the crime scene?"

"I got a call from a distressed woman saying that a man jumped from a window, landed on the pavement and ran off. Seeing as the crime scene is now clean, I figured I would be more useful here," he argues.

"You're never useful," I snap, annoyed. "I need you to take this and get the fingerprints identified. Somebody was in my apartment, as you know, and took all of the data on this case but left everything else untouched. Identify the finger prints and you get your man," I order.

I shove the bag towards him and he takes it with care, "Anything else?"

"Yes: Where's John?"

"Still doing some rounds and questioning. Why?"

"I haven't heard from him in a few hours. Have you checked on him recently?"

"Haven't thought to."

"Idiot," I growl, walking away from him.

"Hey, where are you going?"

"I need Mycroft's help," I confess, stomach churning violently at the thought.

"Ah, Sherlock! I wasn't expecting you," Mycroft exclaims, feigning surprise when I enter his office at approximately 5:22pm.

"Yes you were," I point out, "You've just been waiting for me too tread into depths that I can't handle."

"And have you?"

I bite my lip, half in anger and half out of embarrassment. "Yes," I disclose bluntly.

"And what is the issue, brother. Have you finally decided that you've run into a dead end and need my genius mind to give you a nudge in the right direction?"

"You know very well that isn't the case! I found a new lead, they take the items to the docks for shipping I assume," I snap.

"Yes, but that's not why you're here. Your actions made it all too obvious when you were here earlier this morning with John. You are both just glowing with… adulation. It was sweet when you sent your boyfriend in here to scold me."

"I didn't send him anywhere," I spit.

"I expected you to deny the latter."

"Well…" I huff stumped for words.

"However, the confession of your love for our Doctor Watson was highly unnecessary; in fact, I believe I realised before you did."

"He is not 'our' Doctor, he is mine," I sign, resigning to confessing my mistake to Mycroft, "And my John is missing because I sent him into the apartment block that are witnesses to the last woman's murder. He hasn't answered any calls; nobody has seen him for hours."

Mycroft stays silent but his eye brows raise in a way that screams every word ever dictated.

"And… And," I gulp sharply, fluid catching in my throat, "And I'm terrified."

And I realise that I've never been more terrified in my life. The HOUND may have shaken me to my very core and caused me to lose all faith in what my ever watchful eyes saw. But this… This is worse. The terror shakes me and I can barely think because all of my worst nightmares are coming true, just when they had started to fade away. I'm losing John.

"Mycroft, I have an idea where they've taken him but I have no idea what that place holds. I need your help."

Mycroft frowns, "I'll assemble a CO19 team of some of my most trust worthy men. They will be ready to leave in an hour."

"I have to go with them."

"Sherlock…" Mycroft begins to argue.

I cut him off before he can persuade me otherwise, "John is the most important thing in my life. He is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I need to be there."

Mycroft nods.

I turn to leave but just as I reach the doorway I remember something, "Don't be flattered by what I am about to ask you, Mycroft. I'm doing this for John and John only."

"Yes?"

"John, I can't lose him, I need to know he's safe. Mycroft," I take a shuddering breath, "Mycroft, I need you to take the case."

He nods solemnly.


	16. Labyrinth

I arrive at the docks with an extensively armed CO19 team in a defensive formation around me. I feel oddly ill-equipped with a simple pistol which I was hastily handed while each of these men has undergone extensive military and special operations training.

"On you call, Holmes," a deep voice notifies me.

I turn to face a man with a gun that I could never dream of touching in my life. I have no desire to use it against anybody but, in this circumstance, I feel like a sitting duck with my meagre pistol.

"I must be the only one that John sees. You find the room and you guide me in. You can only enter on my signal. Got it?"

"Yes sir," comes the collective trained order.

"The rest is up to you," I offer.

"Alright men," the man, who I assume to be the leader, calls to his men. "We take the king and his army formation. Only shoot if absolutely necessary, non-fatal shots only. Protect the civilians at all costs. Let's go."

The front men take their first gaits forward while the men at my back push me forward, into the docks.

We weave our way through the shipping crates, the men stay low and check every twist and turn we come across before beckoning me further. I crouch as low as I can, clutching onto my pistol as if it were a safety blanket.

One of the men finally signals to a block of containers that backs up against the water situated a few yards in front of us. The containers are no different to any of the others when you look at them individually, but when you look at them as a collective, they start to look odd.

The block is slightly larger compared to the other blocks of containers and these are pushed together so tightly that you can no longer see through the gaps that should be left in the corrugated iron. My guess is that somebody has constructed a lair of sorts within the containers.

Very quickly it I revealed that my guess was entirely correct when one of the front soldiers opens one container to reveal a labyrinth, a labyrinth where the gold in the centre is John.

I realise all too well that this is devised as a trap: take John, lure me in and kill us both. But even with this knowledge my compulsion to rescue John overrules all good judgement left in my emotionally drained mind.

As we enter the maze my fears are confirmed. Men come at us from all angles, attacking my protectors but luckily they are all thrown down easily with not one bullet fired.

We travel almost easily through the labyrinth of corrugated iron but it isn't until we've reached what we believe to be the centre of the place that I hear what I've been waiting for ever since the first phone call.

"Sherlock!" Screams the unmistakable voice of my John Watson. He couldn't possibly know my whereabouts but at least he's alive. For now.

Our pace changes, now we move with extreme haste while testing every door and peering into every pitch black room with only the help of a single torch beam.

We move on and on through seemingly endless tunnels of pitch black darkness until we finally reach yet another dead end. We turn back in unison but while I am already mentally mapping out our location our section of tunnel when I pause, a sudden realisation about to fill my mind.

The unmistakeable slide of metal against metal separates me from Mycroft's men. I close my eyes, knowing my time is next and expecting an execution because of the intelligence I hold on the cult but instead I find myself being forced to kneel while my hands are tied roughly. I clumsily swing my legs at my captors.

"Big mistake, buddy," comes a voice from the pitch black darkness. "I have your pistol."

All I see is bright white and the sudden loss of cooperation in my left leg. I feel no pain, only a slight tingle as adrenalin pumps through my shaking body.

I yell out in a mixture protest and agony as my bulletproof vest is stripped from my chest and cast aside.

I'm forced to stand and I am lead into another compartment, door sliding shut heavily behind me. The new room is so brightly lit that all I can see is the silhouette of the figure of the only half-conscious John Watson. His hands are bound tightly above him and his feet strapped to the floor.

"It's a dream, it's a dream, it's a dream," he chants mindlessly, not realising my arrival.

"It's not," I announce myself. I hear a slight sigh of relief from John but his body still hangs stiffly where he is tied. "You can untie me now," I complain.

"You tied them in front of me? If you want me to stop me from fighting back you could have at least tied my hands properly." I pace around behind John restlessly, trying to compose myself and eliminate my limp. I do this for a long while before I dare step foot in his sight. "Idiots," I mumble, half directed at the men who bound my hands and half directed towards the CO19 team.

"Sherlock," John warns.

"No, it's quit alright. He is the one with the lack of intelligence here," proclaims a new voice from behind the blinding light source.

"What?" I exclaim, momentarily losing my temper.

I storm forward while making sure I put full weight on my injured leg, still disguising my weakness. I carefully skirt around where John hangs, noticing his already bruised and bloodied body yet I fear the worst is still yet to come for the both of us.

I reach the pole of the floodlight at the end of the room and located the approximate position of our captor. Yet despite my genius abilities and attack plan, I'm held back by one fatal flaw: the leg that now gives out under my body sending me reeling into the crooked man's arms.

He hangs me from the ceiling like a carcass on a hook in an abattoir. I'm defenceless, injured and right where the cult leader wants me.

"This is precisely why, Mr Holmes," he snivels.

I feel the piercing cold of a blade on my back. But it's not for me, if it were he'd be standing so that I too could watch. No, this blade is for my John.

"I got captured on purpose you know," I lie, trying to comfort John in what could be his final moments if the CO19 team of Mycroft's don't locate us soon enough.

"Should I leave the two of you alone?" he chuckles to himself, pushing the knife further until it breaks skin beneath my thin shirt. The knife flicks away from my skin, our captor slipping it back into his jacket out of John's sight. There's an echoing slapping sound as he clasps his hands together and rubs them together eagerly. "Now, to the fun part."

"Sherlock," John whimpers, his voice full of trepidation.

"Mr Holmes, you have proved to be a great nuisance to the project."

"Dissecting women to transport illegal substances and items," I clarify.

"Oh! You still don't know," the man laughs.

I don't know? What don't I know? The mystery brings my racing mind to a halt but I still manage to answer with: "I do, actually."

"Tell me," he prods at my back again.

The man moves around from behind me, closer to John and into the light where I can finally see him without the glare of the spotlight. With one glance I can deduce his entire place in the organisation. He's clearly the man behind the operations centred around London; he may also deal with international affairs but my lack of knowledge on the entire organisation causes me to fall short in this particular area. He's far too small and frail to do any footwork at all; perhaps he just locates the items and the women, perhaps he does less. But one thing I know for certain is that he is the one who deals with the people who investigate the organisation, the ones who get too close to the truth. He deals in torture.

"Tell me," he repeats. His voice is now much firmer having lost all the humour he had spoken with since my arrival.

There's a prickling behind my eyes that stings with certain ferocity. This stabbing pain is different to any other time I've ever had tears in my eyes. These aren't from fear of the notion of losing John, this pain is because I am genuinely losing John and it fills me with terror.

I have to use every ounce of my waning strength just to look into John's eyes and see my terror reciprocated. I dread the very word that is about to pass my lips, if dreaded it since my childhood and even more so now that it has gained meaning. "Sorry," I say the words with my lips but no sound is pushed from my throat. I drop my head in defeat.

"Well then," our captor chuckles, his happy tone now returning, "If you won't speak, then we'll have to make you."

He strides across the room with the full knowledge that he hold all the power in the room. I try not to watch as he steps over to a table to john's side and takes a small dagger from a selection of tools. The dagger is intricately patterned with inscriptions that swirl from tip to handle. I can't read them, I'm not entirely sure that they are words, either way I can see nothing but the knife as he steps back towards me.

He makes a small incision into his index finger. "This is how we open up our women before was insert the items, Mr Holmes," he explains before smearing his thick blood across my protruding cheekbones. I wait for the knife to come into collision with my skin directly but instead the words of our captor pierce me. "Oh, we've been watching you, solving the case alongside you. We've been in your home, we've been in your own mind. We know exactly how to get this information out of you." He smiles manically, turning to John now, "You'll want to tell us everything or I'll use your dearest John as packing foam."

"Don't!" I shout, thrusting my body forward and hoping that the din I am creating will be enough to alert Mycroft's men to our whereabouts.

"Let's see what you know, shall we?"

The man strides towards John, strategically placing himself so that both John and I have a clear view of his actions. The shiny metal glints in the light, sending patterns across the roof as the man raises it to John's cheek. His steady hand lingers, tracing John's features ever so carefully until finally, with one flick of the wrist, the knife drags through the soft flesh. John doesn't even close his eyes but I can tell by the way he tenses his stomach muscles that he is suffering searing pain.

"What do you know?" The man asks almost calmly as if he is totally oblivious to what he has just done.

I struggle even harder, trying desperately to free my hands from their tethers.

"I don't think he loves you," our captor whines at John with a pout. "I think he enjoys your pain more than anyone else. I think he hates you from the bottom of his heart."

John's face contorts. The rage within him stains his face so visibly that I can't help back watch in awe of how he manages to reveal his true heart with just a simple facial expression while I can only force the expression onto my face with intense concentration. He drags a mouthful of saliva from their glands and spits a bloodied wad right into the eyes of our captor.

I smile a restrained smile at his courage for a split second before the dagger drags through John's stomach. It splits his skin and the flesh falls delicately apart. The pale pink moist flesh glistens for a few long seconds before the blood seeps into the exposed flesh. Slowly it flows from the wound

"I am not confessing to you what I know! There are women in danger. Women and girls," I scream, unable to contain myself any longer.

"Oh, so you do know something," our captor inquires with a broad smile.

The man dances around John, sensing my hesitation. He begins to trace John's gunshot wound with the dagger that now glimmers with John's deep red blood. The point of the knife leaves tiny trails of blood in patterns across John's shoulder.

John's keeps his eyes locked on the bloodied dagger, twisting his head at unnatural angles to watch it trace the scar on his shoulder blade. Now, unlike ever before, he doesn't manage to contain his fear. I got shot through the leg and there's a possibility that it won't ever heal back to how it was before, I have a wound in my back that I can feel slowly bleeding out but neither of these things can compare to the agony I feel simply watching John in this situation.

"I wonder if getting stabbed feels the same as getting shot. Would you like to find out, Sherlock?" I attempt to ignore him.

He watches the dagger as the man draws it back and thrusts it forward. The clocks stop and each second feels like it takes minutes to complete. The knife slices through John's shoulder, passing between the bones and ripping through the already damaged flesh. The tip breaks through into my sight agonisingly slowly followed by a flood of blood.

The man leaves it hanging out of John's shoulder and paces over to me. I don't watch him, I don't even hear him. I just watch John's head loll and fall limply to watch the blood dribble from his own stomach.

There's a deafening raucous from just outside the doors. They break open sending limp bodies that one belonged to the organisation's men to the floor. The men who escorted me here barge through the doors and step into the light.

They let John down from where he hangs and he falls limply into the arms of the team.

"John," I shout, unable to remove the distress from my voice. I'm let down from where I am bound. I stumble across the room on my injured leg. "John, wake up! Stay with me." I hold his pale face for only a second before I too am swept off my feet.


	17. Sacrifice

**While writing this chapter I was listening to I Can't Make You Love Me by Bon Iver on repeat and I mention it later on in the chapter so I suggest listening to it at least once before or while reading**

* * *

I refuse to let the nurses bathe me for the entire time I am admitted to hospital. I start attempting to escape from my bed days before I'm allowed to walk and a week before John opens his eyes again. Since then I've complained enough to get hourly updates on my John and have been getting out of bed to walk about the room so that I can gain the strength to walk all the way to the other side of the hospital to see him with my own eyes.

"Mr Holmes you have to stay put, you haven't healed enough to be walking yet," the nurse protests as she once again is forced to hold me down against the cot.

"I need to see him," I cry, "You've let me walk to the bathroom and back."

"He's in a different ward, Mr Holmes."

"It's quite alright, nurse," comes a soft voice. I gaze to the door to find the pixie-like face of Mycroft peering into my private room. "My brother needs to see his friend, it is crucial to his health." The nurse attempts to argue again but Mycroft manages to get it first, "I'll take him down in a wheelchair."

Half an hour later I'm in my own dressing gown and being wheeled down strange smelling hallways by Mycroft.

"Is he awake yet?" He inquires.

"No," I answer bluntly, trying to avoid an unavoidable conversation.

"You did the right thing, Sherlock," he comforts reading my guilty mind. "If you had have told them anything they would have killed you both in an instant."

"I suppose," I mumble.

We arrive at John's room where he lays stiffly in his bed. Even in his induced coma he still looks more alive than when we got his near naked body onto the stretcher just outside the docks. He was thrashing about in mindless agony, blood splattering across him in stark contrast to his colourless skin. In the light I could see every dark bruise on his skin and his ragged breathing sounded like it was barely grasping onto the oxygen that it restlessly sucked at. And he looked like death.

Now the colour has returned to his puffy cheeks and his chest rises and falls in a slow and steady rhythm.

"Leave me alone with him," I say, motioning for Mycroft to leave us.

To my surprise he leaves without a single word.

For days I am wheeled through the hospital from my ward to John's by a mixture of nurses and Mycroft before I finally allowed to walk on my own.

As soon as I've gained the strength to resist being moved about against my will, I refuse to leave John's side. Days and nights seem to blur into one in John's windowless room and it even though seems as though I haven't slept for days, I don't shut my eyes, not even for a second just in case he wakes. Although this is improbable; the doctors have told me many times that they will maintain his coma until he is physically ready to function on his own.

Mycroft appears late on evening and places a blanket over my shoulders; I don't take my eyes John's nose as it flares again with another breath. He leans down to my ear and whispers calmly, "You need to stop punishing yourself for this. You need to let yourself rest." He leaves before I can object; not that I have the energy to do so in any case.

From then on thoughts race through my mind; thoughts of blame, of false forgiveness and of guilt. I keep my eyes wide open while hot tears stream down my still dirty cheeks but the effort is in vain. My weary body fails me and I collapse into a fitful slumber. Night after night I fall asleep in the chair by his bed emotionally and physically exhausted with tears splattering my cheeks, my body finally unable to wield my shield against my emotions.

On our ninth day in captivity a nurse checks up on us both and notifies that I was now well enough to go home which means I'll be forced to go away until the very limited visiting hours.

With hesitance she tells me that the doctors have taken him out of his induced coma and he can go home just hours after he wakes and explains that because he was kept under for so long, he could be asleep for many hours more until he wakes. There's no telling when he'll come home with me.

As soon as she leaves my exhausted body collapses forward. I hunch over and use my hands as pillows on the edge of John's bed. I fall asleep knowing that, once again, sleeping will not provide me with rest.

In my dreams I relive our encounter with the Salvatores Liberis and the man I have come to recognise as the end of my happiness with John because now, every time I look at him, I see how I failed him. I failed and it almost cost him his life. Ever since I was carried away from that place I have called our captor the Breaker because that is exactly what he did; he broke me and I can't find the pieces without John but the Breaker took him away too.

The Breaker rustles his hand through my hair with fondness that leaves me repulsed and heartsick. But the flicker of fingers through my hair doesn't cease and the face of the Breaker turns into the wounded face of John.

My eyes snap open to find John, the real John, awake with his fingers lightly tracing the scratches on my cheeks.

I rocket backwards, dropping my gaze. I'm unworthy of his touch. I am a disgrace who doesn't deserve to see his face. "I'll get a nurse," I manage to say, feeling the hatred in John's gaze.

The run from the room and shout to our regular nurse who gathers the doctors that have dealt with John and I for the last few days. I re-enter the room but still don't dare look at John; that would be too much of a reward and I haven't earned a reward.

However, I listen carefully to everything that the nurse and doctors say about John and what to expect. I need him to recover perfectly or I will never be able to begin to trust myself with John. Although, I will never be able forgive myself for what I have caused.

Hours later we wait on the curb silently waiting for a cab. John climbs into the first but I hesitate. I decide then and there that I am unworthy of travelling with John this time and let the cab draw away from the curb. I drop into the next cab in defeat.

I am the last to get home and find John waiting, blank faced, in the doorway.

He locks the door behind us before he interrogates me, "Sherlock," he says firmly but emotionlessly.

What have I done? I gaze into his face, a blank canvas, before I limp towards him uneasily but instead of standing as I had intended, my weak body gives out and I collapse at his feet with tears already stabbing at my eyes.

"John please forgive me, I never should have let you do the interviews alone, something inside me told me that you were in danger and I ignored it," I wail in choking breaths as I try to hold back the tears.

John stares down at me. His face is as blank as mine would be and it scares me. It terrifies me. He's lost everything that makes him John, everything that grounds me when circumstances are rough.

"I ignored it," I cry, more to myself than to him. I grasp at the front of his shirt until my knuckles are white.

"I don't blame you for that," he says flatly.

"You don't?" I ask, confused but hopeful.

"No, I blame you for once again not coming to save me but instead coming to my location to flaunt your brilliance," he scolds with his voice suddenly full of tone and sarcasm.

That's not what happened, I came to save you. Those words rush through my mind but I can manage to utter them. Instead I just claw at his shirt again, pulling him close. I desperately try to breathe in his scent but get nothing but a gasp of air full of chemicals and my disgracefulness. I choke out the chemicals along with a brief cascade of hot tears into his shirt.

He gazes down at me in silence with a firm face that gives me nothing to work with.

"Say something," I howl before succumbing to the tears that burn at my cheeks like flames.

"What do you want me to say, Sherlock? Forgive you for putting my life in danger again because you were too proud to acknowledge anybody else's existence but your own? Because I can't forgive that, not again. You put me and my friends in danger. You always fret about how you never have friends, it's because you've screwed every one of them over far too many times and they've stopped trusting you. And you know what? I don't trust you either. Not anymore. I stopped trusting you the moment you let me get tortured."

"I'm sorry! Let me explain," I croak.

"I'm done with your excuses. Go off and solve the case, I don't want you around me," I snaps.

Finally I break down and confess, "I gave the case to Mycroft, he came late, and he got us both out of there," my voice cracks audibly as I attempt to swallow back the tears, "I was supposed to be the decoy but I failed and got the both of us almost killed."

His voice finally possesses his usual emotion. He's astounded, a positive kind of surprise, something more like the real John. "You gave your case to your brother?"

"I wanted you to be safe. I waited by your bed while you were in the hospital. I didn't eat, I tried not to sleep but I was emotionally exhausted-" I start to confess but he begins to spit an argument at me.

"Exhausted for what? Being a complete asshole all the time?"

"No, from being terrified of losing you! And now I am and I don't know what to do to make it right."

"How about making a sacrifice for your friends instead of being so selfish all the time?"

My arms snake around his waist without my consent and I end up bawling dirty tears into his heavily bandaged stomach until I run out of fluid and my throat his scratched red raw.

From that day on we never slept in the same room, let alone in the same bed. We never touched; I didn't want to, I didn't trust myself and John didn't trust me either. John got left behind more and more during cases. I learned to put up my shield of emotionless more effectively but it still felt like a bullet to the leg every time that John looked at me with disapproval, distrust or anger.

I lost John.

Months onwards an old foe came into play. He was more dangerous than anyone we'd ever encountered.

We'd met this man once before, only a handful of minutes in total, and it resulted in enough semtex to blow up a swimming pool being strapped around John. I couldn't risk it happening again; I'd lost John's friendship already and losing his life… I didn't want to consider that.

So this time I tried my best to push John away from me. I started acting more and more ungrateful of John's presence when in reality he was the only thing keeping me grounded throughout the entire predicament.

Eventually I felt like an individual again, no longer clinging onto John. However, when Moriarty broke into our flat, even though I kept composed, I could only wish that John was by my side. My individuality was false; I knew then that I could never live without John without losing myself both mentally and physically.

And when Moriarty said "I owe you a fall" I could think of nothing but what John had said to me that nightmare of a day: "How about making a sacrifice for your friends instead of being so selfish all the time?" And I knew exactly what I had to do.

The morning I woke, knowing my imminent death, knowing that I wouldn't live to see dawn break again, I began to recite the lyrics of a song I'd found shortly after John breaking up with me: "I'll close my eyes then I won't see the love you don't feel when you're holding me. Morning will come and I'll do what's right. Just give me until then to give up this fight. 'Cause I can't make you love me if you don't. I can't make your heart feel something it won't"

And when I stood on the edge just as John had so many times in the twisted reality of my dreams I thought of nothing else but all those fateful words. With one hand clasping at the phone, my final link to John, I watch him panic below me. He tries to rush to my aid and I scream at him in terror. I feel a burning in the back of my head as I involuntarily imagine a bullet passing through John's skull.

I'm not making a sacrifice for my friends. I'm making a sacrifice for my only friend.

Doctor John Watson.

The frog in the back of my throat threatens to spring free and I am forced to stop blubbering on about my deceitful ways. John is just a speck on the pavement but I swear I can hear him yelling my name.

I don't want to go. I hesitate. Hearing John's muffled distress from the pavement far below my feet. "You can't hear it, Sherlock," I growl to myself. "You have to jump. It's to save John."

I spread my arms wide and toss the phone far away from me. Wind licks at my coat tails making me feel almost as light as a feather but the stone in my heart drags me down. The calculations are right, I know they are. Everything is in place but I still whisper "Goodbye," to John before I lean forward feeling the rush of air pushing against my weight as I fall from the height I once stood at.

It's all a trick, just as I subtly hinted to John. "It's a trick," I chant as the ground rushes up to greet me. I'm not physically dead, not really, but I'm too dead on the inside to keep on living like this with John. I can't live with John in constant danger of my actions. I can't live with the man I love not trusting me. But, most of all, I'm giving up John because it's the only way I know he'll be okay. It's the only I know he won't die because of my failures.

I hope with all of my heart, soul and mind that this will be enough to save him.

Goodbye John.


End file.
